You Raise Me Up
by In the House
Summary: House's therapy and relationships - and difficulties - continue. Follows When Pranks Go Wrong and Desperado.
1. Chapter 1

Title: You Raise Me Up

Rating: T

Summary: House's therapy and relationships - and difficulties - continue. Follows When Pranks Go Wrong and Desperado.

A/N: Here's the much-requested completion of the trilogy. It's also a longish beast with a lot going on (four distinct major plotlines). Updates will come as I can, but don't be disappointed if not daily. Lots is going on, and when I can't, I can't.

(H/C)

"Right there is the fracture site." The orthopedist indicated the spot on the x-ray, and House, seated on the exam table, gave a huff.

"I can see that. I've got eyes. Even have a medical degree to go along with them." He studied the film himself. "And it looks pretty solidly healed to me, so are you going to let me out of this thing, or should I do it myself with a saw tonight?"

The orthopedist rolled his eyes. "I think we can safely get the cast off today. Just give the arm a little time to get back to full motion and strength; it's been in the cast for nearly 9 weeks from the first injury. What happened to cause the rebreak, by the way?"

"I fell." House's tone unequivocally slammed the door shut on that explanation.

The orthopedist dropped the subject, although he wondered about the circumstances. The topic of who set a trip wire on House in the first place had given the hospital grapevine a good fertilizing for a few weeks after House's initial injury. He reached for the cast saw. "Okay, this isn't going to hurt."

"I know. I've had casts removed before," House replied. "Get on with it."

Okay, toss the bedside manner and just get him out of here. They'd both be happier. The doctor began to cut the cast in half, with House watching eagerly. Finally, it fell away, exposing the pale, rather thin forearm beneath. The doctor probed along the wrist carefully. "Does that hurt anywhere?"

"No." House stood up, pulling his newly freed arm away from the orthopedist's hands. "Thank you, have a nice life, and goodbye."

The doctor sighed. "Well, you know what to do. Try to stay away from this wing of the hospital in the future, okay?"

"Believe me, I plan to."

The doctor looked back at the x-ray and hesitated as he took it off the wall box. "By the way, what caused the older break, the one in the mid forearm? That one looks like it would have had an odd angle of mechanism."

"Ancient history," House stated. The door shut firmly behind him on the way out, and the orthopedist filed the x-ray and wrote his final note in the chart. He hoped that he wouldn't be seeing House again any time soon. Not as a patient, anyway. On second thought, not at all. Brilliant as House was, he'd never be able to understand why Cuddy kept the man around the hospital.

(H/C)

Cuddy was behind her desk when House came bursting in with his usual impetuosity. She was on the phone and held up one finger to him in a 'wait' gesture. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Griffin. No one else could ever replace you as a friend of this hospital." House rolled his eyes and, to her surprise, starting mouthing the rest of the conversation precisely in sync with her and with spot-on accuracy. "We truly appreciate all that you do." Cuddy choked back a laugh; House's goofy expression was making a joke of her usual sign-off platitudes. "And of course, I am . . . " She took a second to clear her throat, fighting for control, and House mouthed the words available at any time, then paused, politely waiting for her. " . . . available at any time if you want to call." House picked up the speech again silently. "My secretary will always leave a message from you if I'm not in the office. Please don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything I can do, and I look forward. . ." She nearly lost it there, as House illustrated dramatically the phrase looking forward, heavy on the parody. Cuddy disguised her laugh as a cough and tried to glare sternly at him. "To seeing you at our next banquet. Goodbye."

She sighed after hanging up the phone. "House, one of these days, you're going to get both of us fired."

"Oh, they couldn't get by without you, and you know it. You're the only one who can deal with me, so as long as I'm here, your job is safe, and as long as you're here, my job is safe. Kind of neat how that works out, isn't it?" He walked over to the desk, deliberately leaning both arms on it, and she realized what was different.

"You got the cast off! I thought the appointment was in two days." She paused. "Um, you did get it off at an appointment, didn't you? Removed by a doctor? Not one named House?"

He immediately looked angelic. "Of course. Saw the doctor and everything. They had an earlier cancellation, and I'd asked them to let me know if they had an open slot. I always do what my doctors say."

"Yeah, right." Cuddy reached across to capture his left arm, running her hands along the wrist, probing. "So the current x-ray looked good?"

"All better." He dribbled his fingers on her desk. "It's just a bit stiff, but that's expected."

"Watson release you from followup?"

"Yes. Should I have brought a note?" He abruptly shifted from joking to serious. "Want to come over to my place for dinner tonight?"

They had been spending progressively more time together off the clock over the last several weeks, rarely apart for an evening now, but she detected the special note behind the invitation. "Sure. What's up?"

He looked away, studying her walls. With the help of recent events, she was able to run that differential easily. He wanted to do something for her, something sweet and romantic, and he still was afraid he would fail. She herself had no doubts. House was revealing an endearing romantic streak underneath his bluff. "Want to just surprise me?" she offered, saving him the explanation. "I love your surprises." He couldn't resist arching an eyebrow there, the uncertainty suddenly displaced by humor.

"Really? I'll have to remember that the next time I have a patient who needs . . . "

"Your _personal_ surprises, House," she emphasized. "But you don't have to tell me right now. Whatever it is tonight, I'm sure I'll love it. Should I bring Rachel or get a sitter?"

"Bring her." He pulled his left wrist, which she had still been holding all this time, free and turned away. "Better go check on the team, see if Kutner's set anyone on fire today. I'll see you later."

"See you later." Cuddy found herself watching his exit with a smile on her face. She might be more discreet in mentioning it publicly, but House definitely had an ass worth watching, too. Her scrutiny suddenly made her notice something else, though. "House!"

He made a dramatic if slow pivot. "Yes, mistress?"

"Is your leg bothering you more than usual today?"

He rubbed at it. "A little bit. Probably means the weather is changing. Spring rains and all that." His pager went off, and he glanced at it. "Got to go do my job. See you tonight."

Cuddy stared at the closed office door for a good two minutes after he had left. Life was _good _these days_._ She smiled as she returned to the paperwork on her desk.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Only Jensen is mine, but I sure wish House were. Cuddy I'd take if the old Cuddy. Current Season 6 Cuddy is even worse than Season 5 Cuddy. Sigh.

(H/C)

House found himself singing as he worked around his kitchen cooking. Yes, he actually could cook, although few people knew it, because most of his life, he'd simply had no motivation to. Cooking a real meal for yourself was a waste of time. But when he applied himself, as in most things, House was far better than average. "Tonight, tonight. I'll see my love tonight." He opened the oven to peer in, then closed it again as the love theme from West Side Story ran through his head.

Unbelievable. If he'd been asked three months ago, he would have bet his entire year's salary against soon being in a happy and progressing relationship with Cuddy, with a side serving of therapy which he actually was finding most helpful. How rapidly things could change. He was grateful for the trip wire that finally had slowed them both down in their dance long enough to get their steps synchronized. And Rachel was a joy, a distinct personality even so young, and to his continuing amazement, she actually liked him.

He paused in cutting vegetables and flexed his left arm, testing. The fingers were a bit stiff, the wrist far worse, since it had been completely immobilized for nearly 9 weeks. At least he'd been able to wiggle his fingers some. He bent the wrist as far as he could, which wasn't far, then used his right hand to flex it on a little further. He knew the range of motion would return with use. Fortunately, it was his fingers, not his wrist, that he mostly needed tonight.

He took a step from the counter back toward the stove and winced. His leg was indeed bothering him more than usual, and in fact, it had been for the last week. He'd managed to conceal it from Cuddy so far, but she'd caught him this afternoon with his guard down in post-cast-removal elation. He'd have to watch that. She had spent far more than enough time worrying about him physically the last few months, and this was probably just the weather, as he'd said. In fact, there was indeed a front moving in tonight, clouds building. Things would probably improve once it blew over. No, he wasn't going to trouble Cuddy with something that was just an inconvenience and not even enough of one to interfere with his excellent mood lately.

Life was _good_ these days.

He heard Cuddy open the door, and he came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, to greet them. She set down the diaper bag and gave an appreciative sniff. "Smells good. How come you never let on that you can cook?"

He shrugged. "Keeps Wilson feeling needed," he deflected. He gave her a quick kiss and then reached out to touch Rachel's cheek. "Hi, kid." His tone as always with her was matter-of-fact, not a trace of baby talk, but no snark or exasperation, either. He had used his left arm to reach for her, and Rachel latched onto it with her chubby little fingers, fingering it curiously as if she realized something was different but wasn't sure what. "This is how it's _supposed_ to be," House informed her. "They're supposed to match. Hope this doesn't mean I lose all my charm for you."

"Yeah, sure, it was the cast she's actually been attracted to - for 9 weeks. Wasn't you at all." Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Get used to it, House. She likes you."

He turned away to head back to the kitchen. "Got to check on dinner." Cuddy smiled at his retreating back. Amazing how much true insecurity there was and no doubt always had been beneath his rough exterior. He was making so much progress the last few months, though. Therapy was doing him a world of good, the acute phase of nightmares set off by his injury had settled back down, and he was finally healthy again. As healthy as he got anyway. He still looked just a bit stiff, guarding the right side now that she was watching for it, but the threat of rain was hovering in the air outside. His leg always had been sensitive to the weather.

House exited the kitchen again to find her still standing in the entranceway, still holding Rachel. "You know, you can sit down. Guess I should have offered, but I kind of thought after the last few months, the invitation was implied."

"Just thinking," she replied. She started for the couch and looked from it to the play pen in the corner, a new addition to House's apartment decor that probably would have made a picture worth $1000 on the PPTH grapevine. "How long do we have until dinner? She had a bottle not too long ago, so she won't need feeding for a while."

"About 20 minutes. Long enough for an appetizer." He came up behind her, his hands coming around her waist for a quick squeeze before propelling her the rest of the way toward the couch. "Sit down."

She heard the anticipation in his voice and was already smiling as she turned to face him and sat on the couch, holding Rachel securely. "Okay, what is the appetizer?"

He limped to the piano. "I want you to finally hear your song."

Her smile widened. Cuddy's Serenade. For months, she had heard it and requested it so often that it was ingrained into her memory - at least half of it was. But as much as she was learning to reach into his mind, there were limits. She had never heard it whole, and she had envied him that. "I can't wait," she said, and immediately kicked into doubts. "But are you sure you should be pushing it yet? You just got the cast off. I don't want you to . . ."

She saw his expression change and immediately realized her mistake, her voice trailing off in mid sentence. One of the things that almost never was productive was to emphasize physical limitations to House. It always got him annoyed, which was just a cover for the fact that it got him feeling even more handicapped than usual, even to himself. "I apologize," she said softly. "You know better than I do how it feels. I'd love to hear my Serenade." He stared at his hands, suddenly doubting it himself. She gave herself a mental slap. "Please play for me, House."

He settled his hands on the keys and started not with Cuddy's Serenade but with a simple set of scales, testing, feeling out the left hand. Obviously, he hadn't even practiced while waiting for her. He had wanted her to hear the very first time he played it whole. The hand was a bit stiff but certainly workable, the fingers at least, and he gradually settled into the feel of it as he ran finger exercises up and down. Finally, he sat back and took a deep breath, not looking at her now, then began. Cuddy closed her eyes, listening, and Rachel in her lap was absolutely still. For the first time, she heard the full richness of the harmonies, the complete intricacy of the progressions. Beauty, difficulties, hope. She gave a happy sigh of fulfillment as he finished.

"It goes faster than that, of course," he said after a moment. "I'm sure you noticed I slowed it down."

"Actually, I didn't." She opened her eyes to find his skeptical gaze on her. "Truly, House. I didn't even notice the tempo change."

He flexed his left fingers. "It will get better," he promised.

She got up and went over to join him on the piano bench, taking a music-mesmerized Rachel along with her. "It's wonderful. It's perfect. Thank you." She leaned over for a deep kiss, then straightened back up. "Play it again for me, House. I want to feel you play it."

Relaxing a bit, he started the serenade again, and Cuddy once more closed her eyes, this time feeling his body next to her, feeling the music pouring out of him, almost as if the piano itself were irrelevant. Now that he had mentioned it, she could tell that the tempo was slower than what he'd played one handed, that he was accommodating the left hand slightly, but even so, it was beautiful. It was whole. She wished the world could pause and just leave them here like this.

He finished again and looked over at her. "Am I putting both of you to sleep?"

She opened her eyes to see Rachel drifting off. "Only half of us." She was glad to hear the joking edge in his voice, which meant that he was feeling a little more sure of his offering the second time through. "Thank you, House." He reached over to trace the side of her face with his newly freed left fingers, then pulled her head over to his, being careful of Rachel. The kiss couldn't go too far with the baby right between them, but like the music, it was full of passion and promises for the future.

Yes, life was truly good right now.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's chapter 3. The plot begins to thicken, but it's got much more thickening to come. Reviews are better than Vicodin.

(H/C)

Wilson was trying to focus on his patient charts and having a harder time than usual doing it. He appreciated the distraction when someone knocked on his door. "Come in," he called, sitting back.

Kutner opened the door and slipped in, giving an anxious look behind him first to ensure that the coast was still clear. Wilson sat up a little straighter. It was odd for Kutner to look bothered by anything, but he definitely looked both concerned and somewhat guilty at the moment. "What's up?"

The youngest of House's fellows took a deep breath and dove straight in. "I think there's something wrong with House."

A slight frown of concern appeared between Wilson's eyes. "What do you mean? He's seemed fine to me lately." But Wilson admittedly had been distracted.

"His leg is bothering him more than usual. It has been all week."

Wilson nodded toward the balcony door and the dismal, damp landscape beyond. "That front that hit last night has been building up for a few days. Weather always increases the pain to some extent."

"I know, but what really got my attention is how hard he's trying to hide it. Normally, when he's having a bad day, he just limps in and is in a mood, and everybody realizes his pain level is up. He won't talk about it, but especially if it's raining, he doesn't try to hide it. Just has a giant 'don't ask and leave me alone' sign tattooed on his forehead. But he's going to extremes this week to hide it, and besides, he seems to be in a great mood at the same time. It's an anomaly. This isn't standard House reacting to the weather; this is House reacting to something else. The differential isn't closed."

Wilson was staring at the younger doctor. "You know, sometimes you can sound a lot like him." Kutner instantly beamed, thrilled to be compared to his diagnostic hero. "Have you asked him what's up?"

Kutner's smile faded. "Are you serious? You sure _you're_ okay?"

"Right, it was a stupid question." Wilson sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, I'll try to check on him and sound him out a little. Thanks."

Kutner nodded, perfectly willing to call in a consult who could better handle that conversation. He was concerned, but no way was he going to ask House about his leg. He wasn't sure how many times you could be fired from this job and still make it back - Thirteen was challenging him for the record on that - but he sure didn't want to be the one to discover the limit. Odd that Wilson hadn't noticed something himself, but once it was brought to his attention, the oncologist was incapable of doing nothing about it. Feeling a little relieved that he'd unobtrusively helped with whatever the issue was in the only way he could, Kutner headed back to Diagnostic Medicine.

(H/C)

Wilson opened House's office door and entered, judging the older man's posture. House was leaning back in his desk chair, legs stretched out on the desk, tossing his ball and clearly working on the stiffness in his left arm. "Hey," Wilson started. "Want to go to lunch?"

House caught and held the ball on the next toss, then glanced at his watch. "The Scooby Gang should be running tests for the next hour or so." He leaned forward to put down the ball and then lifted his right leg down from the desk. There it was. Kutner was right; there was something more than usual there, very subtle but definitely present. Wilson made a show of fishing out his wallet. "I happen to have just hit the ATM. Want to go to out somewhere instead of just the hospital cafeteria?"

House stood up and scrutinized his friend. "Why?"

"Just thought it would be a nice change. Do I need a specific reason?"

"You don't need one, but you definitely have one. You have an agenda written all over your face. And since you don't want to go to the cafeteria, you probably want privacy, which means a difficult discussion. Whatever it is, I swear, I didn't do it. I'm falsely accused." House limped across the office to grab his raincoat. Yes, Kutner was definitely right, both about House trying very hard in his movements to appear normal, at least his version of, and about House being in a good mood in general. The good mood Wilson could guess the reason for. The hiding his pain level, when the weather would have been an obvious and unquestioned cause, was something else.

House turned back to face him as he slipped the raincoat on. "Hello? Earth to Wilson?"

Wilson snapped back to attention. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"Thanks for that clue. Never would have guessed." They exited the office together and headed for the elevator. "So why the sudden desire for my company - at a private location away from the hospital?"

Wilson scrambled for an excuse, not wanting to hit his real reason until House had some of his favorite food in front of him. "Um, I had an update on my brother."

House immediately switched from joking and exaggerated suspicion into seriousness. "Jensen talk to you last night about him?" Wilson was still seeing the psychiatrist on Wednesdays, just as House was on Fridays.

"Right." Wilson looked around the busy hallways. Nobody was too close, but even so . . . "I'll tell you in a little bit." House accepted that and put off any further questions until they were in a corner booth at their favorite burger bar and grill with their orders being prepared.

"So how's Danny?" he started.

"He's doing better. Calmer, and the new meds seem to be helping, but he's apparently blanked out a lot of the past. Tossed the bad memories along with the good, not that there were many good for him. Jensen said last week that he would hopefully be cleared for visitors this week, and he told me last night I could visit."

House took a sip of his beer. "When are you going to see him?"

"Tonight." Wilson took a few gulps of his own drink. "I'm not sure . . . what to expect. That's why I hadn't told anybody the last week that I might be able to see him and actually interact. They'd probably just reassure me that everything would be fine, but what if it isn't?"

House gave a half grin. "You can always ask me to deliver some hard, cold, non platitudes. You're right, it could be a disaster. He might not even know you. He might know you and blame you. I'd never tell you that everything will turn out perfectly fine."

"Gee, thanks, House."

House shrugged. "What are friends for?" He took another sip of his drink. "Although if things did turn out awful tonight . . . you might want some company."

Wilson had been studying the froth in his beer, but he looked up quickly at that, startled. "You're offering to come out to Mayfield with me?"

"If you want me to. Course, if you'd rather have somebody who will tell you things will be just rosy, you might want to pick another friend for this one."

"No, I . . . I'd really appreciate that. I'd be glad to have you along." Wilson took another drink and then sat back as the waitress arrived with their plates. "What about Cuddy and Rachel?"

"I'll tell them I'm tied up with you tonight. Won't tell them why unless you want me to."

Wilson relaxed a bit. "Cuddy knows about Danny already, asks about him now and then. You can tell her. You might save it for Rachel, though; I doubt that she's quite ready to hear about mental illnesses and asylums."

"Oh, she's advanced for her age," House replied, wolfing down a bite of his burger. Wilson had a private grin for that. House was totally smitten with Cuddy's daughter, and she had come up more and more often the last few months in his unguarded conversation. House at that moment fished out the multiple pill bottles on his pain medicine regime, measured out the prescription-strength anti-inflammatories and two Vicodin, and gulped it down with a swallow of beer. Wilson abruptly remembered the initial reason for this private conversation.

"So, how are you doing?"

House raised an eyebrow. "Great, as you should know. Why don't you just ask whatever question you were thinking of there?" His tone was still light, though. He was indeed in a great mood lately.

Wilson sighed. The trouble with trying to tease details out of House is that his mind was usually several steps in front. Might as well just jump off the deep end. "What's going on with the leg?"

House immediately tensed up, the lightheartedness shattering and falling away in pieces from his tone. "It's called an infarction. You see, about ten years ago . . ."

"I mean right now. Your pain level has been up all week." Wilson didn't bother sharing whose observation that had been. He still felt he should have noticed himself.

"Don't know if you've noticed, but we've had a major storm front approaching most of the week, and it actually hit last night. The leg doesn't like weather changes. That's all." But his tone was enough to tell Wilson that that wasn't all.

"Then why try so hard to hide it? Nobody questions that rain increases the pain level. But you're working awfully hard to appear normal - your version of - this week."

House hesitated, trapped between annoyance and inevitability. Wilson was like a terrier at a rat hole, as House knew. Now that he had asked, he would not leave it alone without an explanation, and if House didn't give him one, he might bring in reinforcements. Which was precisely what House didn't want and was trying so hard to avoid. He sighed. "I don't want Cuddy worrying about me."

That was so obviously the truth that Wilson was surprised. He'd expected more deflection. But he still felt like he was missing something here. "Um, House, I think she's already noticed that rain makes your leg hurt more. Years of evidence to that fact. Why worry about her realizing it now?"

House reached across to snatch a few fries from Wilson's plate and munch them, and Wilson read the signals and gave him a minute. They were coming close to the heart of the matter now, but House had to decide for himself. Another push mistimed would backfire. "I . . . um . . . I think she's pregnant."

Wilson's jaw dropped. "She's _pregnant?_"

"Not totally sure. No, damn it, I'm 95% sure, but I don't think she even realizes it herself yet. Very, very early."

Wilson's mind was starting to function again. "And she's had several miscarriages."

"Exactly. I don't want to add any kind of extra stress on her at the moment. This is what she's always wanted. I won't be the one to cost her that."

Wilson sighed. "House, it's quite possible that she could miscarry again with no contribution from environment. If she does, it won't necessarily be anybody's fault."

"But it's sure not going to be mine." House's eyes nailed Wilson's. "Not one word to her, Wilson. Seriously. She's spent so much time lately worrying about me; she is _not_ going to do it now."

The oncologist gave in. "Okay. I promise, I won't tell her anything. You sure it's just the weather, though?"

House nodded. "It's been about the last week, and a big front can be felt a few days out."

"That's still a little long for advance notice. Those first few days were bright and sunny."

House was starting to get annoyed. "I happen to be a doctor myself, remember. Seriously, this is just a worse ache than usual. If I really thought there was something acute, another clot or such, I'd recognize the symptoms. It isn't that severe. It's just the weather."

Wilson knew it was time to back away from the touchy subject of House's leg. "Okay. But if it doesn't improve, let me know, would you? We can run some tests - privately."

"Which there will be no need for, because it's just the weather." Okay, House was officially shut down on that subject with 12-foot no-trespassing signs nailed across the approach. Wilson changed the subject while resolving to keep a closer eye on his friend, just in case. He should have been the one to notice in the first place, not Kutner.

"So, if Cuddy really is pregnant, and if she holds onto the pregnancy, what are you going to do?"

House relaxed again into his familiar exasperation, but still with an undeniably good mood in general underneath it. "Well, probably in about 8 1/2 months, we'll go to the hospital, and when we get there, we'll go in a delivery room, where they will . . . "

"I know all that. I mean, a baby would be a big change for the three of you. How do you feel about that?"

"Trying to channel Jensen?" House wasn't seriously annoyed at Wilson's persistence, though. Not on that subject. "I'm looking forward to it, assuming she holds onto the baby. Rachel is . . . kind of neat. I'd never been around a kid so much before."

Wilson smiled. "You called it a baby. Not a fetus."

"Yeah." House ate his last bite of burger. "I was thinking, actually, even before I thought she was pregnant, that I might ask Mom for my grandmother's wedding ring. She always said I could have it if I ever found someone to give it to." He scowled suddenly. "And I always told her hell would probably freeze over first."

Wilson felt a smile spreading across his face. "Seriously? You're thinking of asking her to marry you?"

House studied his empty plate. "What do you think she'd say?"

Wilson laughed out loud. "I have _no _doubt what she'd say. You two are made for each other. Too bad it took a trip wire to point that out."

House ran his right hand across his left wrist, working on the range of motion a little. "Cheap at the price." He looked up. "But not a word, Wilson. Seriously. Let her figure it out on her own. And if I catch you worrying her, I'll hit you off the balcony with my cane. She doesn't need any stress at the moment."

Wilson held out both hands in a calming gesture. "I swear, I can keep a secret. I've even been going to a psychiatrist and working on that." House relaxed a bit. "And House, I hope you're right about Cuddy."

"So do I." House's cell phone rang at that moment, and he pulled it out. "Yes? Well just as a suggestion, if he's in cardiac arrest, why don't you get his heart restarted first? You take the paddles and . . . no, wait. You let _Taub_ take the paddles and . . . oh, why didn't you say that in the first place? What am I supposed to think when you start out a conversation with 'his heart stopped?' Okay, I'm just finishing lunch. Back shortly." He snapped the phone shut.

Wilson fished out a tip and left it on the table as House put on his raincoat. "If the patient is crashing, you think you'll need to stay around tonight?"

House shook his head. "Nope, I'll go to Mayfield with you. They can always call me. Besides, they'll never learn to drive if they never get a chance to get behind the wheel." He started off for the door, leaving Wilson hurrying to catch up. Increased pain level or not, House could move fast when he wanted to. They drove back to the hospital in the comfortable silence of friendship.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4. Thanks for all the reviews. Remember, my Prank universe broke off halfway through the Greater Good and doesn't follow show events thereafter.

(H/C)

Wilson was clearly nervous on the drive to Mayfield, and House did his best to try distracting him with other subjects, feeling as usual at a total loss in these aspects of relationships. Talking had never been his forte. Wilson seemed glad of the alternative topics, though, and their discussion centered around Cuddy's potential pregnancy.

Wanting to talk. It was such a new feeling for House, but he couldn't deny that the lengthy sessions with Jensen were helping, that getting the abuse and his past out in the (very limited) open helped in dealing with issues. Since his diagnosis of Cuddy's pregnancy, he had wanted to share it with somebody but also wanted to let her come to the conclusion on her own. He knew that she would immediately see all the potential difficulties ahead given her past history, and he thought he'd spare her as much anxiety for as long as possible. He was still determined to minimize stress on her as much as was in his control. On the other hand, telling somebody else before she knew had hardly seemed fair, so he'd just been keeping everything to himself. Telling Wilson hadn't been part of the plan, but he had known that Wilson, without an adequate reason not to, would have gone straight to Cuddy with his concerns as the next step. Still, it was nice to finally talk about it, especially with another physician, to discuss the chances for success and failure in a way that he couldn't have even with Cuddy. Besides, if feeding Wilson's need to be needed was helping distract his friend at the moment, all to the good.

"Don't tell her," House reiterated as they approached their destination. "Not one word. Let her work it out herself."

"I promise," Wilson replied sincerely. He was grateful for the chance, actually, to atone for his actions with Blythe by having a new secret and successfully keeping this one. "But if you . . .want to talk to me, you can. Any time. I'm used to discussing the potentials for success and failure medically."

House stared at the window at the rain-streaked landscape. "Thanks," he said awkwardly after a minute.

Wilson took another corner, and there up ahead of them was Mayfield, standing like a fortress on its spacious and dismal grounds. They both stared at the building as the car made its long approach.

"That's . . . impressive," Wilson said after a minute.

"Looks like the set of Young Frankenstein," House noted. He realized that Wilson had really meant depressing, not impressive, and he was hoping to get a crack of humor out of his friend, distracting him from his brother for just a few more seconds, at least.

It worked. Wilson's features relaxed into a slight smile. "All we need is Frau Blucher. Great night for it, too."

He pulled up to the closest parking space, which still wasn't all that close, and House rebuttoned his rain coat, opened the door, and nearly went down as he exited the car. Wilson saw him stumble and heard the sharp hiss of breath, and the oncologist was around the front of the Volvo at warp speed. "House! You okay?" He grabbed his friend's elbow, providing some support, automatically shifting his umbrella with the other hand and trying to shelter both of them. House was leaning back against the car, his right hand clutching his thigh. The cane had fallen. "House?"

The diagnostician opened his eyes as the pain flare started to diminish. "I'm . . . okay. . . just stepped wrong getting out."

Wilson studied him with open concern now, his brother temporarily forgotten. "You sure? Maybe it would be a good idea to run another MRI, do some tests."

House shook his head, rapidly regaining control of himself now. "I'd been sitting still for a few hours, and I stepped wrong getting out. Should have gone more carefully, especially on a bad weather night."

Wilson was still unconvinced. "Are you _sure_ this is just related to the weather?"

At that moment, lightning slashed across the sky, and the rain, already a steady downpour, doubled. House gave Wilson a classic "Exhibit A" expression, then looked down at the cane. Wilson sighed and handed House the umbrella before bending to pick the cane up off the pavement. He handed it to House, taking the umbrella back. "You sure you're okay?"

"Fine. I just stepped wrong getting out, like I said. Trying to move too fast. Should have known better after a long drive." House started off at a brisk limp toward the doors, leaving Wilson scrambling to catch up with him and get the umbrella over both of them again.

"House, I really think. . . "

House jerked to a stop and turned to face Wilson. "You are NOT going to get Cuddy worried. Not about me, not about her, not about ANYTHING. Understood?" Thunder crashed again, making Wilson jump. It was raining very hard now. House's blue eyes drilled into him, intense even in the bad exterior lighting.

Wilson surrendered for the moment. "I promise." But I am going to be keeping an eye on you, he promised himself. He still couldn't believe that it was Kutner who had noticed that something was off with House in the first place.

They climbed the imposing stairs, House moving carefully and Wilson trying not to hover obviously, but the diagnostician picked up stride again once they were inside. He was almost moving normally now, and Wilson couldn't deny that this was a major storm front. It had been a long drive, too. He hung a mental note to stop at a convenience store or something on the way back, let House stretch his leg out for a minute. He should have thought of that earlier. Long drives had always bothered his friend, just as weather had.

Mayfield inside was as depressing as outside. They gave their names at the desk. Wilson had been expected, this late visit preauthorized by Jensen, and after a brief search (taking House's pills, to his disgust), they were conducted to the long-term ward and into a large common room. Most of the residents were either in their rooms or gathered in a corner watching a movie. Danny was in his room, they were told. "Do you want me to come with you?" House asked.

Wilson debated. All of his nerves had returned full force. "I . . . I think I'd rather see him alone at first. Find out what to expect myself. Do you mind waiting?"

"Nope. Go on; I'll be here if you need me." Wilson gave him a grateful smile and headed off, following an aide. House was left standing in the large room and looking around it with his ever-present curiosity.

The small knot of residents in front of the TV could never have been mistaken for a casual gathering of friends. One woman stared blankly at the wall, apparently unaware of the TV. Most of the patients seemed to be either not really watching or watching too intently - the man in the green shirt, for instance, looked like he might be receiving personal messages from the screen. Another picked at his arms. Another was pulled back a bit from the group and watching them all suspiciously, and that one was the only one who had apparently noticed House's arrival.

He turned from the patients to a survey of the room, and he immediately gravitated to the piano at the side.

It was locked.

Abruptly, House was gripped with an eerie conviction that he was looking at his potential life, as if the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be had wandered out of Dickens' tale and made a side visit to House. Was this what he would have come to? Only now was he truly starting to realize through therapy just how much he had repressed, how deep his issues ran, how much he had shut people out all his life. Without Cuddy, without her trip wire that led to his unwilling revelations, without her bribing him to get into therapy, would he have eventually wound up here? The piano stood silent, as if mocking the residents. There was no longer any music for them. Whatever music they had had was in the past. Now, there was only a locked lid, the reminder of what was lost.

No more music. Cuddy's Serenade never heard. Nothing but silence and loneliness.

Was this the future that thanks to Cuddy he had escaped? A shudder ran through him. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to leave, simply because he could, to remind himself that he was not trapped here, was not locked in. He took two steps for the door, then stopped.

Wilson. He was here for Wilson. Get a grip on yourself, House.

With a sigh, he deliberately turned his back on the locked piano, not wanting to ruminate on it further, and sat down in a chair to wait for his friend - and to be a friend if needed.


	5. Chapter 5

When Wilson came back into the common room, he found House sitting in a chair, eyes fixed on his tennis shoes. He looked up when he heard his friend's steps, though. "How did it go?"

Wilson sighed and fingered the edge of his coat. "I'm not sure. I'd imagined all sorts of disaster scenarios and all sorts of reunion scenarios, but it was just . . . like meeting a stranger. He wasn't glad. He wasn't blaming me. I'm not even sure he knew me, but he was polite."

House stood up. "Let's get out of here," he said, and there was a raw edge beneath his voice that made Wilson for the first time since re-entering the room really look at him.

"You okay?"

"Fine. Let's get out of here." House was already starting across the room to the door, and Wilson watched his gait. Leg a bit stiff but nothing more than was explainable by the storm outside. House paused at the door. "You coming?"

"Yes." Wilson crossed the room to join him. House definitely looked on the tense side, much more so than he had been 20 minutes ago when Wilson left him. "Hope you weren't bored sitting out here. Did you notice they had a piano?"

House gave one short nod that also slammed the door on that topic. "Did Danny seem to be fairly lucid on the meds? Some of them have awful side effects, you know."

Wilson obligingly followed the change of subject. Whatever had House in a mood, he clearly didn't want to share it. "He was definitely drugged but not too bad. Sort of conversational. His memory is shot. Of course, he's probably been outright psychotic for years, and that's bound to leave mental scars. He's still not close to functional on his own, I'd say."

They had made it out into the halls, now, and were heading toward the main door. "You're not thinking of taking him in when he leaves here, are you?" House asked.

Wilson sighed. "No. He's not ready for discharge yet, but he'll probably go to an adult assisted living home when he is. He needs more help than I can give him. I can't take care of everything." He half smiled at House's impressed look. "See, Jensen is earning his fees."

House gave a heartfelt nod and a final glance back toward the long-term ward they were leaving behind. "Yes, he is."

They stopped at the front desk, where House got his prescriptions back, and then headed outside. It was still raining, though not pelting down now. House picked his way carefully down the front steps, and Wilson watched him. "I was thinking, I really ought to put some gas in the car before tomorrow. I think I saw a station about an hour from here that had a pretty good price. We might stop on the way back."

"The car wasn't close to empty." Trust House to have noted Wilson's gas gauge. After a few seconds, though, he continued, "Still, if it was a good price, you'd hate to pass it up." Wilson grinned to himself and replied silently. _You're welcome, House._

(H/C)

They actually stopped twice on the way back, once at the gas station and once at a burger shop for a late snack. Wilson seemed to want to talk about Danny, about his own childhood and the stresses of trying to always be the responsible one who had to deal with his brother, and House did his best to provide a listening ear while much of the time wondering what the hell he was supposed to say at times like this. Still, Wilson seemed glad of the company.

After Wilson dropped House off at his apartment, House spent a few minutes wandering around his living room, especially touching - though not playing - the piano. The keyboard was open and inviting. The music immediately available there reassured him, but what he wanted more right now was Cuddy. It was late by now, but he picked up his car key and headed back out.

Cuddy's house was dark. House slipped his key into the lock quietly and entered, not wanting to wake up Rachel. Cuddy herself turned out to be already in bed, probably enjoying an early night. He had told her he'd be tied up with Wilson for as long as the oncologist needed and not to count on a visit from him. He stood there in the doorway of her bedroom for a few minutes, just watching her sleep. If he was correct about her pregnancy, she might well be feeling tired from that, too. Hopefully she'd just put it down to a hectic work day. He really did not want her worrying about being pregnant yet. Give it a few weeks, or better yet, a few months, to get past the most dangerous early weeks for her. He knew she wouldn't remain ignorant that long, but as long as she could be unaware, it would be that much less stress on her.

Softly, he picked up a pair of loose sweats from his own stock of clothes and headed for the main bathroom to change. He gave a quick check on Rachel, then re-entered Cuddy's bedroom and tried to creep in softly under the covers beside her. He didn't want to disturb her rest, but he needed to be close to her tonight. Mayfield had rocked him deeply. He nestled against her and buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent that was uniquely her, letting it wash away the sterile hospital smell of the asylum. "You saved me," he mumbled into her hair. She gave a slight murmur of contentment, like a kitten, and shifted slightly closer to him in her sleep. He very gently wound his right arm over her side, resting his hand on her flat, toned stomach, thinking about the new life there.

New life. _This_ was new life, the two of them finally together. With or without a baby, their lives had started over. For her sake, though, he hoped it was with. He longed to successfully give her the one thing above all that she had always wanted. She deserved it.

A thread of pain suddenly shot down his leg, not as severe as the red-hot poker that had nailed him when he'd stepped too quickly out of Wilson's car but still enough to make him tense up automatically in reflex before he could catch himself. With him spooned against her and his right arm around her, hand on her stomach, she felt it and shifted, swimming back up from sleep. "Greg?"

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Didn't mean to wake you."

She snapped from drowsiness into full alertness instantly and rolled over to face him. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing." Damn it.

She reached over to switch on the bedside lamp and studied him. "You said you were sorry. It's a dead giveaway. Something's bothering you."

He sighed, forcing himself not to reach for his thigh, which was still aching at increased volume. Cuddy propped herself up on an elbow and reached out to run her free hand down the side of his face. "What's the matter?"

Avoiding any answer would just make her worry more, and outright false answers were getting harder and harder to give to her. He settled for part of the truth. "Mayfield was . . ." He trailed off, and she settled back to listen, her hand lightly running up and down his upper arm in a soothing gesture. "I was waiting for Wilson. Watching all those people, and I suddenly realized, that could have been me. If I'd kept on bottling everything up, never letting anyone in . . . never getting help. Eventually, that could have been me." He abruptly felt tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "You saved me. Thank you."

She was blinking fiercely herself. "Don't take this wrong, but I am _so_ glad I set that trip wire."

He brushed his own tears away, then did the same with hers. "So am I." He stroked her hair. "They had a piano there on the long-term ward - but it was locked. No music, just the reminder that once upon a time, you used to have it. To never play your song again. . . to never see you again. . . " He trailed off.

"You aren't there, House. You're here, with me, and you are working through things. You're making a lot of progress. You won't end up there, I promise." She reached out to capture him tightly, pulling him fiercely to her, and she heard the slight break in his breathing as she abruptly pulled him over. "What's wrong? Did I hurt your leg?"

He hesitated, but she was already reaching for it, her fingers exploring. "It doesn't seem to be cramping up," she noted.

He had to say something, to reassure her. "It's just aching a little more than usual tonight. The storm combined with the long drive."

She accepted the explanation, but her soft hands were still on the scar, kneading it, massaging it. How could anything so beautiful as her hands touch anything that ugly with such tenderness? "Does that help?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, truthfully. Her hands always seemed to dull the pain a bit, even when it was just at baseline. He lay there for a few minutes, letting her help, knowing that it would make her feel better, too. "Thank you," he said after a few minutes. "Thank you for everything."

She released his leg and cradled his face between her hands. "Thank you," she replied, and once again, less abruptly, she pulled him to her, their lips meeting in mutual and eternal rediscovery.

If his leg was still hurting, at least he didn't notice it.


	6. Chapter 6

Good morning, readers! Short update. Next chapter is longer and contains the first "kaboom." Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

"So what causes the low pulse oximetry in addition to all of the other symptoms?" House stood in front of the whiteboard, his eyes boring into it. Behind him, he heard the door open and glanced back to see Wilson. The oncologist pulled back into the corner, obviously putting himself on the sidelines and waiting for the next time-out. House eyed the team. "Well?"

They kicked off into a flurry of suggestions, which House sifted and sorted mentally. Wilson had to smile to himself. Watching House run a differential was practically a study in the Socratic method, and any fellow who survived 3 years under him would be much better off at the end, more perceptive as well as thicker skinned. The team finally settled on a direction and hurried off to run more tests, and House then turned to Wilson and tilted his head inquiringly.

Wilson unstuck himself from the wall between the conference room and the office. "I just wanted to thank you for going with me last night. It really helped having somebody else along on the drive to talk to."

"You're welcome. Now, what did you come in here for?"

"It's the truth," Wilson protested.

"The truth but not the whole truth. Do you want me to start guessing? I'll bet I could get it in one."

The oncologist sighed. He had no doubt of that. "It's finally starting to clear off this morning; apparently that storm last night was the tail end of that front. How are you feeling?"

"Great," House replied - and looked away, starting for his office. Wilson followed him, watching carefully. House was trying so hard. His gait almost looked normal for him, but why bother hiding if there was nothing to be hidden?

House sat down at his desk, and Wilson stood in front of him, hands on hips. "Uh oh," House said. "I swear, I didn't do it. Unless it was something fun."

"House, seriously. How are you feeling?"

He sighed. "A little achy. Not as bad as last night. It'll get progressively better as the front moves on."

Almost anything would be not as bad as last night. Wilson still remembered the swiftness of that pain spike that had pushed past even House's formidable defenses. He knelt abruptly and captured House's right foot.

"Hey!" The diagnostician immediately protested and pulled back slightly, but Wilson had him over a barrel. House couldn't really put much effort into pulling the leg away without hurting it. Wilson rolled down his sock, probing the ankle. "What are you doing?"

"Checking distal pulses, which you know perfectly well." His full attention was on his fingers as they probed. "Feels all right. The ankle might be just a bit swollen, but circulation is good."

"I checked them myself this morning before taking a shower," House admitted.

Wilson looked up sharply from his position on the floor. "You were checking them yourself? I thought you were convinced this was just the weather."

"It's a habit," House immediately covered. "I check them pretty regularly ever since the infarction. Good days, bad days, all sorts of days. Doesn't mean anything special. But they are fine and equal, both sides."

Their eyes locked, worried brown and defiant blue, and then House abruptly knocked a pencil cup off his desk, showering Wilson with pencils and pens. "Hey! What are . . ." Wilson heard the office door open behind him and realized that House must have recognized Cuddy's footsteps coming from the elevator.

She bustled into the office. "House, I . . . what's going on?" She stopped, staring at the tableau of Wilson kneeling at House's feet.

"I knocked over my pencil cup, and Wilson was just picking them up. Feeds his need to be needed." House gave Wilson a firm glare that spoke volumes, then looked up at Cuddy. "What can I do for you this fine morning?" He frowned slightly, looking at her more closely. "What's up? You look excited."

"I just had a call from my sister. She's coming through this weekend."

"The infamous sister! Why did she suddenly decide to visit?"

"She said she felt bad for missing Rachel's simchat bat a month ago."

"And she gives you just a few hours' notice?" Wilson asked. He finished picking up the pens and stood, setting the cup back on House's desk.

"That's Lyla. She always thinks the world revolves around her."

"Clearly, she's wrong, since it actually revolves around us," House quipped. "When is she getting here?"

"Tonight. About 8:00."

He glanced at his watch. "Not much time to prepare. Why don't you hire Merry Maids? I know you'd be in a cleaning frenzy otherwise, not that the place needs it."

She looked at him curiously. "Your first reaction is to think of how to most efficiently clean the place?"

"No," he emphasized, "my first reaction is to realize that that would be _your_ first reaction. So you'd either shortchange work today and feel guilty, or you'd try to clean the place blitzkrieg style and feel like you missed some. Or third alternative, I could help, if you want."

She was staring at him now. "You're volunteering for housework?"

"Love is a beautiful thing," Wilson put in.

Cuddy immediately protested. "You've got an appointment with Jensen this afternoon. You'll be doing well to make it back by 8:00 anyway."

"I could skip one."

"No," she said firmly, and in the glance privately between them was the memory of his reaction to Mayfield last night. "Go on, House. You're right; I'll call Merry Maids."

He relaxed a fraction. "When I get back, do you want me to come over?"

She looked at him, puzzled again. "Why wouldn't I want you to come over?" He had actually wondered if she wanted to simply hide him, if it would be less stressful not to deal with introducing him to her sister. "No, I want you there, House. Actually, I'm counting on you for backup."

"Okay," he replied. "I'll hurry back from Middletown, then."

"Don't hurry too quickly," she said with a shudder, remembering his crash several weeks ago.

"Wouldn't dream of it. I will drive very slowly and cautiously back from Middletown, obeying all traffic signals, strictly following the speed limit, and watching for little old ladies and kittens to help across the street."

She laughed. "You're in a good mood today."

"Why wouldn't I be?" His pager went off at that point, and he glanced at it, then sighed and stood up. "Hold that thought. See you later." He exited the office on a businesslike limp, and Cuddy looked over at Wilson.

"He is in a good mood today," she stated.

Wilson smiled at her. "Why wouldn't he be? You're the best thing that's ever happened to him, you know."

She shook her head. "You've got it backwards. He's the best thing that ever happened to me."


	7. Chapter 7

House got to Jensen's office a little early that afternoon, having allowed some extra time to stop and walk a bit halfway but having also hit the traffic flow just right. He sat in Jensen's outer office waiting for the appointment previous to his to wind up and also people watching, as usual. The secretary was fairly used to him at this point and just ignored his silent differential as she went on about her work. House always appreciated people who minded their own business while allowing him to not mind his.

Jensen finally exited the inner office with the previous patient. He nodded at House but did not greet him just then - the office specialized in not mentioning names in front of other patients or the general public. The other patient left and House was prying himself up out of the depths of the waiting room chair when the secretary spoke up. "Oh, Dr. Jensen, your ex-wife called. She wanted to know if she could bring your daughter here instead of you picking her up later at her house. She said she had a busy evening planned tonight, and it would help to start earlier."

"No problem," the psychiatrist replied, smiling at the topic of his daughter. House wondered whether Cuddy might be carrying a boy or a girl, whether he might have two daughters one day, not just Rachel. What would she look like? Would she also, as Rachel seemed to, like him? He realized that Jensen was still speaking while he himself was lost in the future. "Dr. House is my last appointment today, so I'll be done in about an hour."

"I'll call her back and pass the message along."

"Thanks, Janice." Jensen turned to House, who had managed to make it up out of the deep chair by this point. "Good to see you, Dr. House. You got the cast off, I see."

"Wednesday," House replied, preceding Jensen into the inner office. He flexed the wrist - still stiff but improving. "So I'm officially all better now and not planning to fall or wreck again any time soon."

"I'm glad to hear it." Jensen walked over to the corner to get them both a cup of coffee, knowing by this point how House liked it. "You're limping slightly more than usual, though, and you seemed to have a little trouble getting up out of the chair."

House shook his head in exasperation. "It's been a tough weather week. Do you want to run a set of vitals? I swear, I haven't got a fever or anything." He deliberately took the chair in front of the desk instead of his usual one with the ottoman, just to make a point.

Jensen shook his head slightly as he handed House his coffee. "No, that won't be necessary. You actually in general are looking quite a lot better than when you first started these sessions."

"It . . . helps," House admitted, still rather surprised at the fact himself. He took a sip of his coffee.

Jensen had walked back around the desk and sat down facing him, not commenting on the change from his usual chair. "How has the last week gone? Is the half-dose on the sleeping pills still working?"

House nodded. "It's enough to boost me off without lying awake, but it doesn't put me totally out and near unresponsive like the full dose did. There was one night at the beginning of the week when I had an emergency call about a patient in the middle of the night, and that was okay."

"What about the nightmares?"

"Still a lot better. I can catch a nap without worrying about it, and I've only had one nightmare in the past week."

"About what?"

House took a few seconds to take another drink of his coffee. Even realizing how much this was helping, even being a willing participant now, it was still hard to talk about things. Jensen waited patiently as always. Some patients needed a push, but he'd realized in their first session that this would backfire with House. House responded best to gentle questions but always with recognition of personal space, leaving control up to him. "I dreamed about the time that I spilled juice on the carpet, and when Dad replaced the carpet in that room, he nailed me down to the floor and left me there all day." He was tensing up in the retelling, but he actually was progressively more able to tell things now without simultaneously reliving them, without getting lost in the past.

Jensen forced himself to keep his features impassive. The more he knew about House's father - and he knew quite a bit by now - the more he was amazed that House hadn't either gone postal and killed him or simply lost his mind and retreated fully from reality. It was amazing that House had been as functional of an adult as he had. "Did something happen the day before that reminded you subconsciously of that experience?"

House took a minute to run a mental differential and came up with nothing. "No, not that I can recall. Usually that one is triggered by carpet glue or being physically held somehow, but nope, not that day. Not either one."

"You had to take a minute there to think about it. You hadn't wondered why you had that nightmare that particular evening?"

"No. I . . . I guess I'm just used to them now and then. The flare-up was because of me falling, but I've always had them intermittently anyway."

"Have you ever noticed any correlation through the years? Do they happen more when you are stressed?"

House considered it. "Maybe sometimes . . . but I'm not stressed this week. I've been in a great mood, actually."

"Why?" House immediately locked up. "You know, that is the first time I can recall you describing your mood as great. What caused it?"

Totally unfair to tell more people before Cuddy herself knew. Wilson had been unavoidable. Confidentiality applied here, but House himself would know. Cuddy deserved to be ahead of Jensen in line. "I . . . I do have a reason, but I'd rather not tell you yet."

Jensen accepted it immediately. "Okay. Back to the nightmare." He broke off and smiled at House's slightly surprised expression. "You are in control here. I've told you that. If you say you have a valid reason, I'm glad to hear it, and I won't ask for more until you choose to give it."

Control. Most of his life, from his father to his leg, House had felt out of control, had been scrambling to try to regain it. Having it just politely handed to him still took him aback. "Thanks," he said to Jensen, a word which was coming more easily these days than it once had.

"You're welcome. Now, back to the nightmare, I asked about a proximal cause because that's the first one you've reported in the last two weeks. It might have been random, but very few things with the mind are. Are you sure nothing happened that day that might have reminded you of that episode?"

House replayed the day mentally, then shook his head. "I can't think of anything. And I still don't know why matters. I just have them now and then."

"And don't want to change that?" House straightened up a bit there, looking at it from a different perspective. "Or is it that you don't think you can change that? Do you think status quo after the recent events is the best you can get back to?"

"Do you think I could change that?" That wasn't rhetorical but an honest question.

"I think probably at least some of the nightmares are triggered by specific reminders the day before, and if you were able to consciously identify that, instead of subconsciously, perhaps you could pre-empt the nightmares. Maybe not all of them, but at least a lot less." House considered that for a minute, then gave a worth-a-try nod. "So once again, what happened that day?"

"Nothing at all out of the ordinary. Nothing stressful. I see what you're getting at now, but I'm drawing a blank here."

"Try coming at it from the other side. Describe the event that that nightmare recreates, with as much detail as you can. See if any of those details remind you of something that happened that day."

House took another swallow of coffee, and Jensen gave him time. Trouble was, he didn't really want to sift in painstaking detail through his memories. But it was helping. He couldn't deny that these sessions were helping. "I was walking across the room," he started. "Mom and Dad were both on the couch, and I had just gotten a glass of juice in the kitchen. I was walking back across the living room to my chair when I tripped and dropped the glass, staining the carpet."

"Why did you trip?" Jensen asked. "You're quite coordinated, actually, even now and presumably more so back then."

"My ankle was hurting. Dad had . . . twisted it the day before. He was joking, wondering if he could twist it totally off. So it was hurting, and I stepped a little wrong on it. The pain flare made me jump, and that's when I lost balance."

"So your leg was hurting. Which leg?"

House abruptly put it together, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. "Right."

"You said at the beginning that your leg has been aching more this week due to the weather. Perhaps that's what reminded you."

Or perhaps that plus the strict mental injunction not to show injury - enforced by his father back then, by House's desire to keep Cuddy from worrying now. "I think you may be right."

Jensen left that topic, knowing that House processed best later and on his own. Maybe giving him something to think about there would help him be more aware of possible nightmare cues in his day and help to head them off at the pass in the future. "Did you wake up Dr. Cuddy?"

"We weren't together that night, actually. I had an unstable patient; I was sleeping in my office at the hospital."

"How are things going with Dr. Cuddy?"

House immediately relaxed. "Wonderful. Almost too good to be true at times."

"Why too good to be true? We've talked before about how you sabotage things by anticipating failure."

"Okay, they're just wonderful, then," House amended, and Jensen smiled and let him get away with the dodge, knowing the point wasn't lost on him.

"What about your mother?"

"That's going very well, actually. We talk every week, and we really are talking now. In small doses but talking. Her own therapy is helping her a lot. It's . . . it's odd, but in a way, I think we're closer now than we ever have been."

"Not surprising," Jensen said. "It's finally not built on a lie, and your relationship hasn't had that foundation at any previous point."

"I did have . . . not really a flashback but more like a premonition or something last night," House volunteered.

"What happened last night?" Jensen asked.

"I went with Wilson to Mayfield. He was visiting his brother."

"I knew he was going, but why did you go with him?" Jensen had guessed already and was quite pleased, but he wanted House to say it.

"So . . . so he wouldn't be alone."

"You think it's not good to be alone? Especially in stressful times?"

House hesitated for a minute, momentarily resisting saying it just to be contrary, then gave it. "Yes, I really think I do. You're changing me, you know."

Jensen shook his head. "You're changing you. I'm just sort of a coach on the sidelines. The players have to play the game. But you really are making remarkable progress. Back to Mayfield last night, what happened there?"

"I was waiting for Wilson, and I got to looking around. It just . . . it got to me. It was like seeing my own alternative future. If I hadn't gotten help, if I'd just kept on, I might have wound up there." House looked directly at Jensen. "Do you think I might have wound up there?"

Jensen considered, then gave him the truth. "Honestly, Dr. House, I'm surprised you hadn't already wound up there in life, considering everything that has happened to you. Do you have any idea how strong and resilient you are?" House looked at him in surprise. "Yes, you are. But you also are correct, you've had a lot bottled up, and you've worked at isolating yourself to keep people from noticing it. So yes, I think you would have had a total breakdown at some point in the future." Jensen leaned forward a bit over the desk, emphasizing the next point. "But that is the future that might have been, based on your past. It's not the future you have available now. You are getting help, you are improving, and there is no reason to think you have an acute crash coming. You are far healthier mentally than you used to be and improving all the time. Right now, I don't believe you will have Mayfield in your future." House relaxed a bit, glad for the professional seconding of Cuddy's opinion. "Quite understandable that the place had that effect on you, though. What did you do when you started feeling trapped?"

"I started to run, just leave, and then I remembered Wilson. So I stayed and waited for him."

Jensen smiled at him. "That's really excellent. You were able to maintain control over your emotions and fears. Did you tell Dr. Wilson about your thoughts later?"

"No. He had enough to deal with. He was thinking about Danny. I did tell Cuddy later last night, though." House hesitated. "Although she sort of dragged it out of me. I wouldn't have, but she knew something was wrong."

"And did you feel better for sharing it, even if you hadn't intended to?"

House nodded. "Yes, all right, I'll say it. Talking about things helps. Satisfied?"

Jensen laughed. "For today, I am. You really are making progress, Dr. House. Even in Dickens' Christmas Carol, the bleak future could be changed."

"I was just thinking of that story last night." House glanced at his watch. "Well, you've probably got your daughter waiting for you by now, and I need to get back to Princeton." He didn't want Cuddy facing her sister alone.

Jensen nodded. "I'll see you next week. And try to notice, as you go through the day, little things that might remind you of the past, even if it's just your leg hurting. If you acknowledge them at the time, maybe you won't have to in your dreams." He pushed back from the desk and stood up, watching House stand. The chair House had picked in his I'm-fine fit was not as comfortable as the one he usually took, and his leg was obviously complaining about it now. Once he had made it upright, they walked together to the door.

"Dad!" A blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl ran across the room toward Jensen as they stepped into the outer office. Jensen smiled, giving her a hug, then looked at the dark-haired woman who had been waiting impatiently. "Thank you, Melissa. I'll meet you as usual Sunday night."

House was writing a check to give to the secretary, but he found his attention wandering to the little girl. She looked like a pixie, like something magical. What would Rachel look like in a few years? What would Cuddy's baby, boy or girl, look like? Was this the future awaiting him instead of Mayfield?

The girl felt his fixed regard and looked over at him curiously, and House suddenly froze in mid signature. He straightened up and studied her, head tilted slightly. "Do that again," he requested.

"Do what again?" she asked, puzzled. Jensen caught the intent note in House's voice and took a half step toward him.

"Is something wrong?"

"That's what I'm wondering. Look at your father, then turn to look back across at me, like you did a minute ago." The girl obeyed with confused compliance, and House walked over to her, reaching out to cup her chin and bending over to look straight into her eyes at close range.

"What do you think you're doing?" Melissa started, heading over to them, and Jensen put out a hand to stop her.

"It's okay. He's okay."

"But what . . ."

House was ignoring them, totally focused on the girl. "Have you been having headaches lately?"

The girl was totally puzzled now. "A little bit."

"What's wrong?" Jensen asked.

House straightened up to face him. "You need to get your daughter to a hospital immediately."


	8. Chapter 8

House felt like the rope in the middle of a vicious round of tug-of-war. Cuddy and Jensen, the two people with whose help he had avoided the future of Mayfield. Furthermore, Jensen had spent an entire Friday night not many weeks ago being there for House at this hospital while his friends were elsewhere. But Cuddy was pregnant - hopefully pregnant - and her sister was coming. But there really was something going on with Jensen's daughter; House would stake all his years of instinct and experience on it. He was needed in Princeton. He was needed here. He couldn't worry Cuddy. He couldn't just walk out on Jensen. Make that a frayed rope being pulled apart. He was trying to compromise and hit all of his responsibilities by making sure Jensen's daughter was getting appropriately evaluated at Middletown before darting back down the highway to hopefully not be too late getting to Cuddy's - and the little old ladies and kittens could fend for themselves on that drive back tonight. Unfortunately, the ER doc they wound up getting assigned at Middletown had a much more recent and clear picture of House as the idiot who had been riding his motorcycle while also dealing with a broken wrist, advanced pneumonia, sleep deprivation, and anemia than he did of House the brilliant physician.

And his leg was killing him.

Jensen, no longer the astute psychiatrist but simply a very worried father, was at the moment trying to talk to his ex-wife, whose opinion of House didn't have much besides the ER doc's obvious dismissal to go on so far. "But they say it's probably migraines," she said. "There's been a bug going around the school, too. She has seemed a little tired the last two days."

"If there is something more serious, we need to get it checked out. I know you don't want to think about that possibility, but denying it won't make it go away," Jensen said.

"Can't you forget about your damn job for one second? You even sound more like a psychiatrist than a father." Melissa glared at him. "That's been your problem all along, Michael. Just because some random patient of yours says it's serious, why should I believe him over the doctors here?"

House edged past them while they were arguing. Jensen noticed but didn't stop him; Melissa didn't notice. He stepped up to the side of the bed where the little blond pixie, somehow looking much smaller and more defenseless now, lay on the bed with both eyes closed, obviously hoping everything would go away if she pretended it wasn't there.

"Cathy," he said softly in the low but matter-of-fact tone that he often used with Rachel, "does the light bother you?"

"Little bit but not much. I was just . . ."

"Wishing yourself out of here?" She gave a weak smile and nodded. "I hate to break it to you, but it doesn't work. I've often wished myself it did. How long have you been having headaches?"

"The last two or three days. Not really before then. Only once and a while if I was sick." She opened her eyes and met his with the intense directness of a 7-year-old. "Am I really sick?"

Damn. Why did people ask him for reassurance and comfort? "I don't know," he replied. "But if you are, we're going to make you better." And why was he telling her that? He didn't even have a firm diagnosis yet, much less a prognosis. "Are you dizzy?"

"A little . . ." she started.

The ER doctor came up firmly beside him. "You do NOT have privileges here, Dr. House. You shouldn't be examining the patient." He snapped the penlight on and did a quick examination. "I'm not seeing acute neurological signs myself."

"It's subtle, but it's there," House insisted. "Her balance was off when she turned. Her extraocular motions look odd, especially on turning. She just admitted to dizziness." He locked both hands on the bed rail, fighting the impulse to shake the ER doc, or just to rip the chart out of his hands and order up some tests himself. Time was wasting, for Cathy and for Cuddy. "At least get an MRI. This is not a simple case of migraines. Besides, migraines don't present this abruptly this young." He saw Cathy's eyes on his as she absorbed the words that proved his previous ones to her a lie.

"And I repeat, you do NOT have privileges here."

Melissa abruptly realized that he was beside her daughter's bed, and she charged over. "What are you doing to her?"

"Just asking a few questions." House tried to keep his tone level, tried to channel Wilson. "I realize you're worried, but . . ."

"Don't tell me you know what I'm going through. When was the last time you were with your daughter in the Emergency Room?" she challenged.

"Two months ago," he snapped and only realized a second later that he'd called Rachel his daughter. He took a deep breath. "Mrs. Jensen, I . . ."

"It's Cortland. I took back my maiden name."

"Mrs. Cortland, all I want is to make sure your daughter is well. That's all any of us want."

Jensen came up alongside. "Dr. House is a brilliant physician, Melissa, and one of the most observant people I've met. If he says there might be a problem, I have to believe him."

"If he's so brilliant, why did that doctor ask him when we came in what stupid thing he'd done this time?"

"He mistook me for someone else," House suggested.

Melissa sighed. "Look, Michael, I'm as worried about Cathy as you are. She hadn't even mentioned to me she'd been having headaches. But I don't see the reason to jump off the deep end just because your patient wants to. It's probably just migraines or some bug. And I am the custodial parent."

Jensen looked at House. "How sure are you?"

House gave him the honesty he deserved. "100% sure something is going on. Not sure what, but there is something significant there. Children don't just develop acute neurological signs without a reason."

"And I still say I'm not seeing acute neurological signs," the ER doctor put in. "And you STILL do not have privileges at this hospital."

"Keep her overnight for observation," House suggested. "If she gets worse, she'll be right where she can get help, and we'll know something more is going on. If she gets better on simple migraine meds or fluids and supportive care for the bug going around the school, then we'll know that was it."

Jensen looked at Melissa. "It sounds like a good plan to me. This is our daughter, Melissa. Let's not take chances."

She looked from Jensen to House to the ER doctor to Cathy, and her eyes softened as they dwelt on Cathy, who had once again closed her eyes and was looking helpless and frightened. "Okay," she conceded.

House gave a deep breath and glanced at his watch. It was 7:00. He tore the blank border off a page on Cathy's chart, ripping the small piece away right under the ER doctor's nose, and quickly scribbled down his cell phone number to give it to Jensen. He thought of calling Cuddy, but he was afraid his voice would give him away at the moment. No, he'd just hit the road and spend the fast drive collecting his thoughts and putting on the casual front for her sister. Hopefully, Lyla would be late.

(H/C)

Cuddy glanced at her watch, trying not to be obvious. House was late. Lyla had been early. Dinner was mostly done; she just hoped House would show up soon.

"And she's just adorable," Lyla cooed, tickling Rachel. "You could have gotten her a happier looking teddy bear, though. That one looks like it has indigestion."

"It's her favorite, Lyla. It was a gift from Greg." And it looked curious, not in pain, Cuddy continued silently, but there was no point in disputing anything with Lyla. The woman could hold an opinion more firmly than almost anyone else Cuddy had met. House could be equally bullheaded, but he at least adjusted his beliefs as new data came in.

"Greg? Oh, yes, the man you're dating right now. I was surprised to hear you mention him when I arrived. You'll have to tell me about him sometime. But meanwhile, Lisa, I have to tell you the REAL reason I came to visit."

"I thought you wanted to meet Rachel."

"Oh, I do, but I mean the other real reason." Lyla gave a dramatic pause. "I'm PREGNANT."

Cuddy felt the familiar stab of envy mixed with failure. "Are you sure? You're not showing."

"6 weeks along. And I'm not even sick in the mornings or anything. It's all going so easily."

"But . . who is the father?"

"His name is Bill. He was very sorry he couldn't come with me on this trip, but he has to travel with his job a good bit. We met 3 months ago and just hit it off. Sometimes, it's just magic from the beginning. But I had to tell you. I knew you'd be so happy for me."

Cuddy picked up Rachel to occupy her hands and fight the urge to slap her sister. No, Lyla had simply wanted to practice one-upsmanship, as usual. Throughout their childhood, whatever Cuddy had wanted, Lyla felt the need to be there first and with higher points. She knew how much Cuddy had wanted a child. _I have a child,_ Cuddy reminded herself, looking at Rachel. _I have a beautiful daughter now._

But part of her inside still longed for a successful pregnancy on her own.

Lyla waved her left hand, showing off an impressive diamond. "Bill, of course, has already proposed. I'm thinking an August wedding."

"You've only known him three months, Lyla. Be sure you know what you're getting into."

"Oh, believe me, I do." Lyla eyed Cuddy's empty left hand. "One day, you'll meet the right one yourself, and you'll know from the beginning that this is forever. You'll understand then."

Cuddy got to her feet. "I need to check on dinner," she said. She retreated with Rachel into the kitchen to check on the food and to count to 100. _House, where are you?_ She hoped he hadn't gotten into another wreck on the way home from Middletown.

As if in answer to her thoughts, the door rattled, and Cuddy burst out of the kitchen. Here came the cavalry. House against Lyla was more than a fair match.

House limped in, trying his best to stand straight and appear impassive. He had made the 2-hour drive in an hour and a half, without any stops and with a lot of muscle tension. No doubt that explained why his leg was hurting even more, but he wouldn't worry Cuddy. He had to be focused and supportive now. "I'm sorry I'm late," he started out, and realized a second later that he'd blown it straight out of the gate. Cuddy's eyes immediately became too fixed, intently studying him. "There was an emergency at the hospital."

It wasn't a lie, she thought, but there was something more there. He looked tense and worried, his lighthearted mood from earlier today vanished. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine." He took a few steps into the room and looked at Lyla, who was sitting on the couch, studying him, her eyes resting for a long moment on the cane.

"Greg, this is Lyla," Cuddy said. "Lyla, Greg. I need to get dinner on the table. Can you take her a minute, honey?"

The endearment sounded a bit odd from her lips, but he instantly realized that she was trying to put on a happy and perfect domestic front for her sister. "Sure, love," he replied. "C'mere, kid." He scooped Rachel into his arms and limped caneless to the recliner. Rachel reached out to wind her hands in his hair and cooed at him. "So, Lyla, have you been here long? I didn't mean to get tied up." They fell into House's best imitation of casual conversation. He was not going to worry Cuddy. If she wanted to portray perfect and typical domestic bliss to her sister, he would play along.

In the kitchen, Cuddy stared at the pots on the stove. He had said he was sorry - a phrase he only used when feeling helpless, conflicted, or out of control. Normally, he enjoyed the sessions with Jensen lately and returned somewhat refreshed, but tonight, he was clearly as tense as the wires on his piano, and he wasn't quite moving right, either.

She made a resolution not to share Lyla's pregnancy, provided that Lyla didn't herself. House would worry about the effect on her, and he looked like he didn't need anything else worrying him tonight.

But he was here. Late, worried, obviously fresh off some difficulty, but he was here. He had come to support her. Cuddy squared her shoulders and reached for the plates. Time enough to talk later and try to sound out his problems, whatever they were, but for now, the fact that he was here was enough. _Lyla,_ she thought, _even with a pregnancy thrown in, I wouldn't trade you. _


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: About Cuddy's sister's name, that was only revealed in the Thanksgiving episode, and this story was developing long before that. Once I get a character mentally set, I can't just change it.

(H/C)

They were just finishing dinner when House's cell phone rang. He pulled it out and glanced at it, then stood up. "I'll take this in the other room. I'll try to keep it short." He snapped the phone open. "Hi, Mom." He left the dining room and headed down the hall for Cuddy's bedroom.

"Hello, Greg. I know we usually talk on Saturday, but I've got plans for tomorrow with my senior group. Is this a bad time?"

He entered the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him. "Actually, it kind of is. I was having dinner with Lisa and her sister."

"Oh, I apologize. I won't keep you then."

"No, hang on a minute, Mom. We need to keep it short, but I wanted to talk to you anyway." He sat down on Cuddy's bed and heaved his leg up with a soft grunt. At last he could stretch it out and could dig his fingers into the thigh, trying to work out some of the pain. At least the front had passed, and it was totally starlit and clear tonight, but his leg really hadn't appreciated that super fast trip back from Middletown.

Blythe unfortunately heard his slight grunt. "Are you okay, Greg? Is your leg bothering you?"

"I was just getting it stretched out. It's been a bad weather week up here in Princeton." He quickly jumped to the main topic, not wanting to leave Cuddy without backup for too long. "What I wanted to ask you, Mom. Could you send me Oma's ring?"

Blythe caught her breath, unable to speak for a minute. "You're going to ask Lisa to marry you."

"Yes. Soon as the right moment comes along." He kept the further news to himself. Blythe would be ecstatic at the thought of a grandchild, but Cuddy deserved to know first.

"Oh, Greg, I am SO happy for you. Yes, of course, I'll get it in the mail either tomorrow or Monday. I'm not sure I have a box for it, might have to buy one. Monday at the latest."

"No rush. I can almost guarantee I won't be asking her this weekend, anyway. Her sister is in town, and . . . "

"Family can be such a pain at times, can't they?" There was a note of humor behind her words, fully applying the joke to herself, and he smiled. Blythe had made a lot of progress herself in therapy the last several weeks.

"Yes, they can. I've got to go now, Mom. I don't want to leave Lisa on the front lines alone."

"Okay. Just quickly, how are things, Greg? How are you doing?"

"Things are good," he replied. "I'm doing a lot better. Got the cast off my wrist this week, too. Got to go, Mom, but I'll call you when I get the ring."

"Okay. I love you, Greg."

"Love you, too. Bye." He hung up and let his thoughts wander to his grandmother's ring for a minute, imagining it on Cuddy's finger. He hadn't missed the rock Lyla was wearing, but this one would put that one to shame. Better get back out there and be supportive. With a final rub at his thigh, he stood up.

(H/C)

Lyla and Cuddy both followed his retreating form with their eyes as he took the call and left the room. "What's wrong with his leg?" Lyla asked as soon as they heard the door click.

"He had an infarction years ago."

"I thought that was a heart attack. How do you have a heart attack of the leg?"

"It's just a blockage of blood flow. Most common in the heart, but it can happen anywhere." Rachel cooed from her carrier, and Cuddy turned back to her.

"He's quite a bit older than you, isn't he?"

Cuddy's hard-held temper flared. "What on earth difference does it make? And it's not all that much."

"Just thought you could do better." Lyla reached for another roll.

"I wouldn't trade him for ten younger men, and don't you dare say something like that in front of him. He's had a rough day, I think."

"Looks like he's had several." Lyla pushed back from the table and headed for the living room, and Cuddy occupied herself with Rachel, counting to 100 again. She was trying not to have an outright blowup tonight, knowing that House was stressed already anyway, but she wasn't sure how she was going to get through this weekend without one.

(H/C)

Much later, after they had retreated to their respective bedrooms for the night, Cuddy closed the door to hers firmly and then looked squarely at House. "Greg, what's wrong?"

He had gotten into bed already, stretching his leg out. "Nothing."

"Don't try to pull that crap with me. What's wrong?"

He sighed. "Jensen's daughter was waiting at his office when I finished. She was showing neurological signs, and I picked up on it. Went to the ER with them."

"THAT'S why you were late. You could have stayed up there. I would have understood."

"You needed me," he said simply.

She got into bed beside him and slid over. "How's the daughter doing? Did you get her checked out?"

"She's admitted overnight for observation, but the ER doc is an idiot." He leaned against her, smelling her hair. He always loved the scent of her. "He might have thought I was an idiot, too. Wasn't that inclined to listen to me."

"Let me guess. Same one who treated you initially in the ER after your crash?"

"Got it in one. I insisted on at least observation. He thought it was migraines, and hopefully he's right, but I don't think so."

"If you went to the ER after leaving Jensen's office, you were doing very well to get back as soon as you did. You didn't have to do that." She appreciated his effort, though. How could she have ever thought he was cold and unfeeling?

He pulled her tightly against him, more possessive and reassuring than sexual at the moment. "Yes, I did."

"Is that why your leg is hurting more tonight? Because you drove back so fast? I know trips get to it."

"Yes. That's it." Damn it, she'd picked up on that. He'd have to watch it. But things would get better as the weather improved. "Your sister is a self-centered bitch."

"Yes. Always has been." Cuddy started massaging his leg. "I'm used to her. But I was glad you were here tonight, even so."

He closed his eyes, feeling her hands, feeling her. "So am I."

(H/C)

House's cell phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Cuddy woke up first and snatched it while House was still dragging himself up from a deep sleep. "Hello?"

"Dr. Cuddy?" It was Jensen, sounding worried. "Is Dr. House available?"

She didn't point out that it was 3:00 a.m. Clearly, Jensen knew that. His daughter must be worse. "Sure. Just a minute." House had pried both eyes open now, and she handed him the phone. "It's Jensen."

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Cathy is worse. I've talked with Melissa. We'd like to have you handle her case if you're willing to take it on."

House sat up straight in bed. "You'll have to transfer her to Princeton. I don't have privileges there."

"We understand. You're right, there is something badly wrong here." Jensen took a deep breath.

"Okay, I'll get my team and be waiting for you at PPTH when the ambulance gets there."

"Thank you," Jensen said with a world of feeling behind it.

House snapped the phone off. "Got to get to the hospital and prepare things. Jensen's daughter is being transferred." He looked at her. "I'm sorry for leaving you with your sister."

She smacked him lightly. "I told you to never tell me you were sorry. It's okay, Greg. I understand. Don't worry."

It wasn't him worrying that he was worried about. "You don't worry either."

She sighed. "Agreed. Neither one of us will worry. Deal?"

"Deal." He slowly got out of bed, glad for the cover of darkness as he stood and got dressed. His leg was still hurting.


	10. Chapter 10

House was already writing down symptoms on the whiteboard when the team arrived.

"What's up?" Kutner asked, impossibly bright even this early. Thirteen simply headed for the coffee pot to start some.

"New patient," House replied. "History is still a bit sketchy, but we'll get a better one soon as she gets here. She's being transferred from Middletown. 7-year-old girl who has been having headaches the last day or two, some dizziness, slight visual changes, now developing nausea and abdominal pain. Her mother also thinks she's seemed tired lately."

Taub hid a yawn behind one hand. "The flu?"

"Good guess, if we ignored the neurological symptoms." House's tone was dripping with sarcasm. "Nope, this definitely has a neurological component."

Foreman studied the board. "Meningitis?"

"We'll do an LP when she gets here, although I don't think she was febrile. Still, ought to rule it out."

"What treatment has she had?"

"Supportive care and Imitrex."

"And she's developing nausea even with Imitrex?" Taub was getting interested now.

"Yes." House studied the board. "Okay, rule out infection, standard tox screen. What else, people?"

"Any of her friends sick?" Thirteen asked.

House rewarded her with a nod. "Good. You and Taub can drive to Middletown soon as we get the names of her friends from her parents. Check her friends, the school, home, her usual places."

"That's a two-hour drive," Thirteen protested.

"Only if you obey the speed limit," House pointed out. "But if you don't, I'm not responsible for any speeding tickets."

"Could get an MRI, just to rule out intracranial bleed, although it would sure be odd in a 7-year-old," Foreman suggested.

"Good. Soon as she gets here, Thirteen and Taub get names and school from the mother, then hit the road. Foreman and Kutner, MRI, LP, full lab workup. I'll get a more thorough history from the father."

The team had been starting to move, but that froze all of them in their tracks. "_You're _going to do the patient history?" Foreman asked, making sure he'd heard right. "You never talk to the family."

"Actually, I do talk to the family, but only before daylight on the last Saturday of the month. You just must not have noticed yet." House limped toward his office, and the team looked at each other before heading in a line for the now-full coffee pot. It was looking like it would be a long day.

(H/C)

Cuddy had Rachel up and getting fed before Lyla exited her room. "Such a luxury to sleep late," her sister said. "Although your mattress in the guest room really could be better." She looked around suddenly. "Where's Gary?"

"It's _Greg_, and he had to go to the hospital for an emergency in the middle of the night."

Lyla shook her head. "I'm glad Bill has his priorities straight. No running out on me in the middle of the night."

"Except when he's traveling for business?" Cuddy pointed out, giving the last word an emphasis that added a whole different meaning.

Lyla immediately gave a huff and turned toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower. Hope you've got enough hot water."

Cuddy waited until the door to the bathroom shut, then studied Rachel. "Rachel, maybe having you be an only child isn't such a bad thing, after all." Even as she said it, though, tears welled up slightly as she thought of her major failure in life. She could subdue her peers, her job, and her hospital, but not her own body, it seemed.

She let her thoughts wander across the past as she finished feeding Rachel. If House's models of relationships had been illusion and pain, Cuddy's had been competition. Her father was one of the most driven people she'd ever known, absolutely consumed with the need to be successful, defined in financial and employment terms. He had married the best choice in his town for wife, had a successful career, moved to a successful neighborhood, and drove a successful car, but he had never seemed satisfied, and though he had never said it, she had no doubt he was disappointed that neither of his daughters had been his son. They thus found themselves in a competition from childhood on to outdo each other, to succeed, to earn his esteem. Cuddy had been the more successful careerwise, and Lyla's barbs had been especially sharp in the years since Cuddy's promotion at PPTH. Her parents were proud of her now, she knew. They said so. But part of her still wished that they had been able to be proud of her all along.

She leaned over, kissing Rachel on the forehead. "I'm proud of you," she said fiercely, "and you will never, ever have to earn love from me. Or from House." She smiled suddenly, realizing how natural it was to link his future to hers. She still felt her lack of pregnancy, but she had at last found a good relationship, and unbelievably, it was the one that had been dangling under her nose all along. For maybe the first time, she truly did not care what Lyla thought about her choice - or what her father thought, or how it compared to other people's. She was happier than she had ever been. That was enough, regardless of what they thought.

Thinking of House made her wonder how he was getting along. She took a minute out of admiration of her own daughter to send some good thoughts for Jensen's.

(H/C)

House sat in his office, tossing his ball, thinking. LP results were pending, and MRI was negative. Taub and Thirteen were doing research in Middletown; Kutner and Foreman running tests here. Tox screen so far was negative. Blood pressure was low, heart rate up. House had spent quite a while talking to Jensen, getting the most thorough history he could, but nothing jumped out, even when later supplemented by talking to Melissa. Cathy had been a perfectly healthy child all her life, had started having headaches and fatigue a day or two ago - and was steadily developing additional problems now. White count was not elevated. Still no fever.

This had to be environmental, most likely, although she hadn't been anywhere new, hadn't changed her routine lately. Thirteen and Taub were probably on the front lines in Middletown. Meanwhile, Kutner and Foreman were expanding what they were testing for on the toxicology. House found himself hoping they could find it in time. The girl reminded him of his own building family.

Hope. What a foundation for a differential. Focus, House, he chided himself.

He shifted in his office chair and winced as a jolt of pain stabbed his right leg. What on earth was wrong with it? The weather was no excuse today, bright and sunny. He carefully lifted the leg down from his desk and leaned over to check the pulses at the ankle again. Strong and steady. There was no problem with circulation, no new clot. His cell phone rang just then, and he fished it out. Cuddy. Immediately putting on a stiff upper lip and pulling his hand away from the leg, even though she couldn't see him, he answered. "Hi."

"Hi. How's it going?"

"She's slowly getting worse. We're chasing leads. Sooner or later, we'll catch up with one. How's it going with your sister?"

"She went out shopping. Thank God. I just wanted to remind you to eat lunch."

"Is it lunch time?" Surprised, he looked at his watch.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Eat and take your pain meds, in that order."

"Okay, I'll be good," he said, and she immediately was suspicious.

"You're not going to object? List all the things you should be doing instead and how you haven't got time to take out to eat?"

House tossed the ball. Was it more stressful on her for him to try to avoid stressing her? "I'm sure I could come up with a few other things to do, if you really want me to. I'm almost to level 5 on my game. That's much more fun than lunch."

She laughed, sounding a bit more relaxed. "Eat, House."

"Yes, mistress. On my way right now."

"And keep me informed on Jensen's daughter."

He sighed. "I will."

(H/C)

A little later, House was just finishing up his Reuben in the cafeteria with a chaser of Vicodin and anti-inflammatories when his pager went off. He grabbed for it, hoping for a message from Taub and Thirteen, but nope, it was from Foreman. He stared at it for a second, then stood and headed for Cathy's room. Foreman stepped away from the bed, and Jensen looked up as House arrived. "Her visual changes are getting worse, and she's starting to show intermittent arrhythmia," Foreman said, sotto voce. Jensen stood, resting his hand on Cathy's shoulder for a minute, then came over to join the conference in the doorway.

"Do you have any idea what's causing this yet?"

"I'm pretty sure it's environmental, but we're still narrowing down possibilities." Foreman looked startled at House giving a direct and non sarcastic answer to that question. "Foreman, go call Taub and Thirteen. Find out what they've discovered, and if they haven't found anything yet, tell them to look again." Foreman nodded after a moment and headed off, and House stepped outside, out of earshot of Cathy and Melissa. Jensen followed him.

"How bad is she?"

"Whatever this is is attacking the central nervous system. Still no fever, though, so probably not infectious. I wish there were some way to speed up the diagnosis, but we have to wait for the data we need to come in." As usual, House felt helpless on this conversation and reminded himself exactly why he usually avoided contact with the families and patients. They wanted reassurance. All he could offer was a mental flow chart, and they didn't understand that that was how it worked for him, that reassurance simply wasn't relevant.

Jensen sighed. "I understand. Thank you." Actually, watching House, seeing the outright reverence (often with exasperation, but still reverence) the hospital showed at his name, watching his team work at narrowing things down, was reassuring. Brilliance doesn't have to be understood to be recognized. "I'd better get back in there before Cathy starts worrying what we're keeping from her." He turned and went back into the room.

House lingered outside, watching the family through the glass wall. The mother on the far side of the bed, leaning over with a world of concern and compassion in her eyes, one hand resting on her daughter's hair. Jensen on the near side, hand on her shoulder, eyes intent, probably feeling helpless himself but just being there. Cathy between them, eyes closed, fear on her face. She was old enough and was also sick enough now to realize that something truly was wrong.

They were together. In a crisis, they were still all _together._

Is that what family was? Is that what he'd always missed? Is that what he could have, with Cuddy and Rachel and the baby to be?

"House!" Kutner's voice sounded behind him, and House, not wanting to be caught standing here staring at the family and clearly not thinking about the case, spun around away from the window. The flare of pain up his right leg took his breath away, and he was unable to suppress a grimace. In the next second, his leg totally gave out, folding up like the leg on a card table, and he went crashing all the way down.


	11. Chapter 11

House closed his eyes against the pain briefly, then opened them and tried to roll over and sit up. There were hands on him, and he twitched an impatient shoulder, trying to shake them off. It was Kutner, of course. Only Kutner out of the team would dare. A few nurses were staring, but his reputation at first and his glare as soon as he was able kept them at bay.

"House!" Kutner helped him sit up and then leaned over to look into his eyes, and House pushed him off with his hands.

"Quit it, you idiot. I didn't hit my head. Just turned too fast and lost my balance."

Footsteps sounded from inside the room, and here came Jensen out into the hall. Damn, he must have heard the crash. "Dr. House, are you all right?"

"Fine. I am FINE. Just lost my balance," he repeated. He pulled his left wrist free of Kutner's probing fingers. "And this time, I even remembered not to put my hands out to break the fall."

Kutner let go, but he was still studying House with not only concern but differential in progress. "I saw it, House. That sure didn't look like losing your balance. The leg just gave out on you, and you reacted to something about it even before that."

"Because I turned too fast," House insisted.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jensen asked. Kutner looked from House to Jensen and back again, wondering why House hadn't bitten off the patient's father's head by now.

"I'm FINE," House snapped. Okay, make that a delayed biting off, Kutner thought. Still unusual.

House was sitting up with his back against the glass wall, but now he started to haul himself to his feet. He didn't even make it halfway before another stab of pain flared through his leg, this time centered in his ankle instead of the thigh, effectively knocking him back to the floor. Kutner immediately knelt on the right, hands exploring, starting at the upper leg and working down. House tried to smack them away.

"I am FINE. Go run tests or something. Our patient is in the room, not out here."

"Yeah, right." Kutner fingered the ankle, and House jumped. "Perfectly fine." He carefully took off House's shoe and sock, and all three of them studied the ankle, which was swelling rapidly. "Either a sprain or a break, hopefully just a sprain, but we need to get x-rays." He looked up at House. "But the ankle isn't why you fell. You just did that landing, probably trying to favor your wrist."

House sighed, looking at the offending joint, and tried to flex it, then caught his breath and winced. Kutner was right. He needed x-rays. "Damn it. Let's do them under a pseudonym, though. No, wait, wouldn't make any difference." Cuddy was going to find out about this anyway. He might try to hide slightly increased baseline leg pain, but there was no way to hide a badly sprained ankle.

Kutner was still looking at him in speculation, as was Jensen. The nurses hovered in the background but still kept their distance. At least it was Saturday, and much of the hospital staff wasn't here to see this farce. "MOVE," House snapped. "Go find a wheelchair, and let's get this x-rayed and wrapped, so I can get back to diagnosing our real patient."

Kutner left in search of a wheelchair, and House turned to Jensen. "I'm sorry. I can still work on Cathy's . . . " He trailed off as he realized that he'd given himself away again, as Jensen knew by this point as well as Cuddy exactly what the phrase sorry indicated for House. Even in the midst of concern for his daughter, Jensen immediately realized that there was more going on here.

"Why did you really fall?" Jensen asked.

"I turned too quickly and lost my balance," House insisted. Their eyes met, defiant stubbornness versus straightforward and polite persistence, and it was House's that fell first. "I can't . . . " He trailed off. "I don't know, honestly."

Jensen studied him. "You need to get checked out."

"I will. But I am STILL going to be working on Cathy's case. She needs me." House looked back into the room. "She needs you, too. Trust me, Kutner is like a Golden Retriever; he won't let me alone until I'm all patched up. I'll be fine. Go back in."

The Golden Retriever mentioned was coming down the hospital corridor with a wheelchair. He pulled it up and locked the wheels, then stepped over to House's right side, starting to reach out, then stopping and asking first. "Need some help getting up?" Jensen came in closer on the left but kept his hands down, leaving it totally up to House.

House shifted his leg again and sighed. Yep, definitely a bad sprain. As a plus, the throbbing ankle had at least pushed his thigh into the background for the moment. "Hurry up," he said. "Let's get this over with and get back to our real patient." With Kutner and Jensen helping from either side, House pried himself off the floor, standing on one leg, then hopped the short step to the wheelchair and sat down. Jensen stepped back once he was settled and simply returned to Cathy's room, not saying anything else in front of House's fellow. Kutner turned the wheelchair and started pushing it toward the elevator, and House silently recited curse words in every language he knew.

Yes, he was really doing a _great_ job of minimizing stress on Cuddy. Damn.


	12. Chapter 12

Kutner wheeled House down to Radiology and conscripted a room - House's team automatically had priority on the equipment, anyway, and with House himself in the wheelchair, the receptionist bumped the entire list without a second's hesitation. No way she was going to delay, comment, or otherwise in any way draw attention to herself.

Once in the radiology room, Kutner instead of setting up for an x-ray got a blood pressure cuff and pulled out his stethoscope. House immediately sat up straighter in the chair in protest, jerking his arm away. "In case you haven't noticed, the problem here is with the ankle, and it's located downstairs. You must have missed that day in Anatomy 101."

Kutner gave a disarming grin but did not yield. "Basic triage. Any doctor down in the ER would get the same information, no matter what the presenting complaint, and if you'd rather head down there into the busy weekend crowd instead of dealing with me here, that's fine. I'll push you."

House sighed and held out his arm. "Hurry up. We have a 7-year-old girl deteriorating on us, in case you haven't noticed. By the way, what were you going to tell me? You called out to me just before I turned around."

"I heard from Taub. They've found three of Cathy's close friends who are also sick. One of them was in the hospital already, Taub and Thirteen found neurological signs on the other two and convinced the parents to take them in. Those two seem to be a bit behind Cathy's schedule, the one in the hospital already is worse than she is, but it looks like the same thing."

House shook his head. "This has GOT to be environmental. Assuming that the whole school isn't sick, we need to find the common denominator on those four. Where have they been lately? Any new places to play?"

"They're working on it up there, will talk to the kids more as soon as they can, but the parents are freaking out, of course. We need to talk to Cathy again, too."

"I'll do it," House insisted.

Kutner looked at him curiously before putting the stethoscope on and listening to House's chest. "Take a deep breath. Do you know Jensen from somewhere before?"

"Why?" House took a deep breath before he realized what he was doing, then abruptly knocked the stethoscope away. "Checking breath sounds for a sprained ankle is NOT standard procedure. Vitals, maybe, but exam after that focuses on the injury. And there is NOTHING in general wrong with me."

"You just seem - more familiar with Jensen than with standard patient's family. I wondered if you'd met somewhere before."

"We met at a conference once," House said. "Spent an interesting evening talking together. Unlike most idiots there, he wasn't boring."

Kutner eyed him, then removed the stethoscope from his ears. "Well, all of your vitals are perfectly normal. BP on the high side of normal, but still within normal, and that's explainable by pain. No fever, lung sounds absolutely clear."

"In other words, as I said, I'm FINE. Can we get on with this?"

Kutner finally switched operations to the lower extremity, but he started in the thigh, palpating it gently. House pulled away as far as he could while in a wheelchair. "The leg has been hurting you more the last few days," Kutner noted.

"We had a lousy weather week all week with that front coming in."

"Bright and clear today." Kutner shook his head. "I saw that fall. That was NOT losing your balance."

House sighed. "I turned around too fast when you called me - you did see me turn around fast, right?" Kutner considered it, then nodded, conceding that point. "I'd been standing for quite a while, and the leg objected to me turning suddenly like that. That's what made it hurt, and that's why it folded. End of case."

Kutner still was a bit dubious. He knelt down to study the foot, looking at the toes this time, not the rapidly ballooning ankle. He pushed against the nail beds. "Capillary refill is good."

"Believe me, if I thought I had another clot, I'd wheel myself to the ER. I don't ever want to go through that again. I just turned too quickly."

Kutner sighed and hung a mental note to talk to Wilson again when he got a chance. Wilson was less likely to be fired as friend if he got House annoyed. Kutner started setting up the x-ray arm and a wall plate. "Okay, standing is better. Think you can stand for these?"

House lurched out of the wheelchair, right foot barely touching down, and balanced himself against the wall, ankle squarely in front of the x-ray arm. "Get on with it." Kutner retreated behind the radiation shield, and several minutes later, they were both studying the films on the wall box.

"Bad sprain," Kutner concluded. "No fracture." He studied the ankle. "I'd really recommend an air splint on it, at least at first. That's easier to take off and on than an Ace wrap, anyway, and it will support you more. The wheelchair wouldn't be a bad idea."

"No," House said with absolute steel in his voice.

Kutner did know when to back off. He'd pushed House as far as he could at the moment. "It'll have to be crutches, then. You don't need to be weightbearing on this. Trying the cane is just asking for another fall." House looked at the x-rays again, then sighed and nodded. Kutner disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with an air splint and a set of crutches. He knelt to apply the splint, then handed the crutches to House, watching and deliberately not helping as his boss pried himself out of the wheelchair and got his balance. House had used crutches before, both for a while after the infarction and many times in his childhood. He hobbled a few steps, getting the feel of it. Left wrist still somewhat stiff, but this would work.

"House," Kutner said, and House cut him off at the pass.

"Yes, I am SURE that I'm fine."

Kutner held out his hands dismissively. "I was just going to say, it's interesting that the patient's father is a psychiatrist. I saw a psychiatrist several years ago for a while, dealing with some old issues from my parents getting killed in front of me. It really helped. One of the best things I've ever done, and I wish I'd gone sooner. I hate to think what might have happened eventually if I'd never gotten into therapy." He turned to exit the room at full speed, not waiting for his boss's reaction to that. "Got to go check on the patient."

House was left standing in the middle of the x-ray room, propped on crutches, staring after Kutner. Damn. The kid was far too perceptive for his own good. On the other hand, if he'd been through therapy himself, he probably would understand not wanting to have it passed around on the workplace grapevine. No, Kutner was most likely safe with that secret.

But House still needed to decide how to explain his ankle to Cuddy. With a sigh, he hobbled toward the door.


	13. Chapter 13

House hobbled toward Cathy's room. Foreman was coming the other way down the hall, and they met at the door. The neurologist looked House up and down, taking in the crutches and splint, and wisely said nothing at all. House's glare was conversation enough. Together, they entered the room.

Jensen and Melissa were on one side of the bed pulled close together for support while Kutner was on the other side, leaning over Cathy. He looked back as the door opened. "House, the arrhythmia is getting more frequent and isn't responding as well, and she's drifting in and out of consciousness now."

House stared accusingly at the monitor screen. "Keep treating the low BP and tachycardia. And run some more tox tests. I know you've done the common environmental poisons. Go to uncommon ones." House crutch-limped over to the head of the bed, pushing past Kutner, who immediately backed away to give him room. "Cathy, have you been anywhere new this past week or two? You and your three friends?"

Cathy's eyes had fallen back shut when Kutner stopped his exam. She opened them at House's voice but stared at him blankly. "Four arms," she said vaguely.

"Four arms?" Foreman repeated.

"I think she thinks the crutches are attached," House replied. "Cathy, it's important. Where have you been this week? Anywhere new? Anywhere different?"

"No," Melissa replied. "The four of them usually go to one of the houses after school until the working parents get off. Two of them are stay-at-home moms. But nothing different this week; she's been to those houses for a few years."

House turned back to Kutner. "Make sure Taub and Thirteen ask the two who aren't as advanced yet - ask them _away_ from the parents - if they've been anywhere new. Did they slip out? Go anywhere?"

Melissa was getting annoyed. "She's only 7. We keep her very well supervised, and anyway, she wouldn't sneak around on us."

"You'd be surprised how many parents we've heard say that."

Jensen sighed. "I realize you have to consider the possibility, but I'd be surprised."

"And we've also heard a lot of parents say that," Foreman put in.

House turned back to Cathy. She had drifted into semiconsciousness again, and he shook her lightly, giving it one more try. "Cathy, focus. Did you do anything new the last few days? Spill anything on yourself? Go to a new area where they might have just sprayed something?"

She shook her head, then closed her eyes. "Dizzy," she murmured.

House stepped back. "Don't think we're going to get much more out of her. Call Taub and Thirteen and make sure they specifically talk to the friends about locations ASAP. Those two aren't as far advanced as Cathy is; maybe they can focus more. Keep testing for poisons; I still think they got into something. Keep an eye on her cardiac status." He hobbled toward the door.

"Where will you be?" Foreman asked.

"In my office, thinking." He exited, and Kutner turned to Jensen and Melissa as Foreman drew another blood sample.

"He does his best thinking up there alone. He isn't ignoring the case; he's getting more focused on it."

Melissa looked dubious. Jensen gave her arm a squeeze. "It's going to be all right," he assured her, his other hand touching Cathy's, and for the moment, he felt almost as helpless in the hospital as House usually did in personal encounters. Nothing he could do right now. It might be his daughter lying here, but help was all in the hands of others.

(H/C)

Up in his office, House collapsed into the Eames chair, stretching out his throbbing leg. Ankle to thigh was hurting. He had gathered his ball on the way by his desk, and he tossed it, thinking. He had to come up with a cover story for Cuddy, couldn't let her worry, but first, he needed a new direction on Cathy's case. She was rapidly getting worse, not to mention the three in Middletown. He watched the moving ball, thumping it against the far wall, catching it unerringly on rebound. Patterns and rhythms, just like music. It made sense. It all _had_ to make sense. He just needed to identify the piece being played.

(H/C)

With Foreman with Cathy for the moment, Kutner excused himself and headed for the men's room. After a quick check underneath the stall doors, he pulled out his cell phone.

"Kutner?" Wilson did not sound terribly pleased to be contacted by House's team on Saturday night. Kutner sent mental apologies to whoever date of the evening was.

"Wilson, I thought you ought to know. Earlier this afternoon, House just . . . fell over."

Kutner heard the oncologist snap to attention. "He _just fell over?_"

"Right."

"Is he okay?"

"Bad sprain of the right ankle. I managed to do a brief exam on him, and he let me do x-rays. Couldn't find anything at all wrong other than the ankle, but I only had a minute. I saw that fall, and he didn't trip. Did turn a bit suddenly, but something was bothering him even before he turned, and the leg just folded up. I've seen him stumble several times because of his leg, but I've never seen anything like that. I'm _sure_ there's something wrong with House."

Wilson sighed at the more emphatic echo of Kutner's concern a few days ago. "I did try to talk to him, but he kept insisting it was the weather."

"He's lying," Kutner stated definitely.

"Where is he now?" Wilson asked.

"He's in his office. The current case isn't going well. Three other kids now have the same thing. I really have to get back to our patient, but I wanted to let you know. I pushed him as far as he'd let me this afternoon, but I think he needs a thorough physical workup. Good luck getting him to take a time-out at the moment, though."

Wilson sighed again. "Thanks. I'm on it." Kutner could hear the beginnings of apologies to his female companion for the evening as the phone clicked shut. With a mental apology himself to House, Kutner headed back for Cathy's room.

(H/C)

House was still tossing the ball, eyes focused far beyond it, when the door to his office opened. Wilson entered with a sandwich in either hand. He had decided on the way over to try to shield Kutner, who deserved protection from the consequences of his concern. "Hey, I thought you might be ready for a quick dinner break." He stopped in feigned surprise. "What happened to you?"

House caught the ball on its next bounce and looked back over at Wilson, his eyes still focused on a point beyond them. Wilson knew he was conducting the conversation on autopilot, his mind far off still in the maze of the differential. "Turned too fast and fell. I twisted my ankle a little, but not too bad."

Wilson looked from the crutches to the splint, then dropped House's sandwich on his chest. "Eat that. It'll mean you can take your pain meds for the evening, assuming you haven't already." House didn't answer but started munching absentmindedly, and Wilson knelt by the ottoman and carefully removed the splint. He whistled under his breath. The ankle was the size of a large grapefruit, and it was blossoming in various shades. "This is twisting your ankle a little?"

"It's not broken," House insisted with his mouth full. "Got x-rays and everything. So while your concern is appreciated, it . . .no, on second thought, it isn't even appreciated. Go away and let me think. Patient crashing here." He jumped as Wilson gently probed the ankle. "Take it easy, would you?"

"I thought it was just twisted a little," Wilson retorted. "You need an MRI."

"Got a full set of x-rays this afternoon, which ruled out fracture. MRI is pointless."

"Not for the ankle. For the whole leg."

House tensed up, his mind snapping back out of the maze of differential. No longer did he look distracted. "It's _fine_, Wilson. I turned too fast, and I fell. The leg had nothing to do with it, other than the missing muscle that failed to make that turn with the rest of me."

"House, something has been going on all week. You know it, I know it, and if you don't want Cuddy to know it, I suggest you let me check you out privately." Wilson started replacing the air splint.

House immediately sat up straight, his eyes icy. "You're actually trying to blackmail me to make you keep a secret? And here I thought you were keeping them just because we were friends. Or rather, that you were trying to learn to keep them."

Wilson flinched at that barb. House had always had excellent verbal aim when he wanted to strike. "Friends do things for each other, but there is a limit. There is a clear health issue going on here . . ."

"Exactly!" House nailed him visually. "With _Cuddy_. She doesn't know yet, Wilson, and the longer I can keep her from worrying about being pregnant - or about _anything_ else, the better." Their eyes locked.

"You really think showing up on crutches is going to make her not worry? Or did you plan to hide for a few weeks and hope she wouldn't notice?"

"I'll tell her the truth. I was distracted, I turned too fast, and I fell. That's all there is to it."

"You know that isn't all there is to it," Wilson insisted.

House shook his head. "End of discussion. I promise you, Wilson, if you get her worried about me - sprained ankles aside, which I'll tell her myself - that's it. I forgave you for my mother. I wouldn't forgive you for costing Cuddy her child."

Wilson shook his head in exasperation. "But you're creating bigger problems by downplaying everything. House, if you kill yourself trying to protect Cuddy, that isn't going to help her stress level." He trailed off as he realized that House was no longer listening. He was focused at a point in the middle of the room instead, and while Wilson could not see the symbolic light bulb there, he felt the reflected warmth from it. "Great. So now you've solved the case, so there's no reason to put off . . . wait a minute. What did I say? You think the patient tried to kill herself?"

House was struggling up from the Eames chair, getting his crutches set under himself, moving faster than his leg wanted to and honestly not noticing. Wilson stabilized him for a minute while he found his balance. "No, you idiot, she didn't try to kill herself. But I know what this is. I have no idea how, but I know what." He finally achieved a solid standing position and crutched out of the office at high speed, leaving Wilson hurrying in his wake. Wilson tried to assess his gait, but there was no possible way to separate the effect of the ankle from the pre-existing leg pain right now.

House stabbed the elevator button with a crutch and wavered for a second at the momentary loss of support. "Come on," he snapped impatiently.

Wilson grabbed his elbow, steadying him again. "House, as soon as you finish sharing this epiphany, I really think . . ."

At that moment, the elevator door opened, and Cuddy, Rachel, and Lyla started to exit. Cuddy, the first one off, nearly ran into House in his eagerness to enter, and they both skidded to a dead halt, facing each other in the elevator door with shock and guilt respectively, Wilson and Lyla relegated forgotten to the sidelines.


	14. Chapter 14

17 and 18 are two of my three favorite chapters in this story. They're coming up soon, and the story really picks up speed from there on out.

(H/C)

"House! What happened to you?" Cuddy stared at him, her eyes running down to the splint and back up.

House once again was a fraying rope in a tug-of-war. Couldn't worry Cuddy. Had to get to Cathy - time was critical there. Had to explain to Jensen. Had to explain to Cuddy. He needed to be two people at least to handle this properly.

Wait a minute, there was someone else. He turned quickly - almost too quickly - to Wilson. "Wilson, go down to my patient's room and explain the problem and treatment."

Wilson was staring now. "House, I have _no_ idea what's going on with your patient. I haven't even been here all day. It's the weekend, remember? And I'm not about to explain one of your epiphanies - I wouldn't make it past step one."

House drummed fingers against the crutch handles in frustration, annoyed that the world couldn't see and explain what he now saw so clearly. Minutes counted with Cathy. But Cuddy . . .

"Tell you what," Wilson offered, "I'll explain your accident to Cuddy, and you go deal with the patient."

Cuddy had stepped closer, putting a hand on a crutch herself as if making sure they were real. "House, WHAT is going on here?" she asked, voice rising.

"Take it easy," he said soothingly, and she glared at him in disbelief.

"Take it EASY? At what point today did you hurt yourself, and why didn't you let me know?"

House suddenly remembered Lyla, hovering in the edge of the elevator and eying House as if he was confirming his unsuitability with every second. "I'm forgetting my manners," he said dulcetly, smiling at her. "Lyla, this is James Wilson, head of Oncology. Wilson, Lyla Cuddy."

Lyla automatically stepped forward, as Wilson automatically extended his hand, muttering, "It's a pleasure." At that moment, House pushed past her into the elevator, propelling Cuddy and Rachel back inside, and stabbed the button. The door closed on dual stunned looks from Lyla and Wilson.

House turned to Cuddy as the elevator started its journey. "This afternoon, I fell and sprained my ankle. I'd been standing too long in one spot, just thinking, and when somebody called me, I turned too quickly. It'll be all right."

Cuddy looked at him suspiciously. "Did you get checked out?"

"Yes. Full exam, complete set of x-rays. It's just a sprain. I swear, I was going to tell you, but our patient is crashing, and I've been working on that since. But I've got it now. I have to get to her."

Cuddy still looked a bit dubious. "You did get completely checked out?"

"Scout's honor. Look up the x-rays yourself if you like; I didn't even use the name of Brock Sterling." He reached out to put a hand on her arm. "It's okay. I'll be fine. It's just a sprain." He thought it was high time for a change of subject. "What brings you here at the moment?"

"Lyla wanted to go out to eat a late dinner and insisted on coming by to invite you. I told her you were working and would do well to remember eating at all, but she insisted."

House shook his head. "So that I could turn down the invitation and be visibly 'ignoring you' for my job. I'm sure she would have spent dinner bragging about how her fiance never ignores her. NOT that I was ignoring you today, I've just . . ."

"I understand, Greg. Critical patients will happen. You were needed here. Although I'm sure you're right about Lyla; she would have used it to brag more on her Bill and on how great her life is." Remarkably, Lyla had not mentioned her pregnancy in front of House yet, last night sticking simply with praising the attributes of Bill and comparing House by disparaging looks to them. Cuddy could tell he really did feel guilty at leaving her with Lyla today; she wouldn't make him feel worse by bringing that up. She stepped closer, leaning against him while being careful not to disrupt his balance. "I missed you today."

He closed his eyes, breathing in her scent and imagining their future as a family. "I missed you, too." Rachel reached out curiously to grab a crutch, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "And you, kid."

The elevator dinged, and House turned abruptly, suddenly back on patient mode, and nearly fell over again as a flare of pain shot through his leg, ankle to thigh. Cuddy quickly reached out to steady him. "House! Are you okay?"

He set his balance carefully and limped on out of the elevator. "Fine. I was just in a hurry."

"I'm starting to see how you fell earlier. You need to remember not to let your mind move faster than your body does when something suddenly strikes you on a case."

He hunched an impatient shoulder. "I'm fine. The ankle is throbbing, and it didn't appreciate that turn. That's all."

"Maybe after you're done, we could go home and indulge in some first aid."

He smiled, but hesitated. "I'd . . .like to keep an eye on Cathy for a while. See how she starts responding to treatment."

"Okay, maybe we could just stay in your office tonight. Maybe Wilson can keep Lyla out of our hair."

House chuckled. "One can only hope." He reached Cathy's room and entered quickly, and Foreman looked up.

"House, she just had a seizure."

"Get her on oxygen, very high dose oxygen. Schedule the hyperbaric chamber ASAP."

"But pulse ox is the one vital sign that's normal," Foreman started to object, then stopped. "Unless it actually isn't." He immediately started setting up the oxygen. Kutner left the room quickly to make arrangements on the hyperbaric chamber.

House turned to Jensen and Melissa. "She's got carbon monoxide poisoning. It fools the pulse oximeter, because carboxyhemoglobin can be interpreted by the machine as the same thing. Her brain is starving for oxygen, and that's why her body is shutting down."

Jensen had stood when House limped into the room. "How would she have gotten that?"

"I don't know. Probably in one of the houses; there are all sorts of methods. Malfunctioning appliance, usually. How doesn't matter right now; we have to start treatment immediately. We'll figure out method later."

Melissa looked at him dubiously. "Wouldn't it have improved when she got away from it?"

"No, it binds to platelets for the life of those cells. Which isn't forever, but leaving the source just keeps you from getting more. It doesn't diminish what you've already had; that stays with you until new blood cells are formed to replace the old ones. But this is treatable, high-dose oxygen to get her levels back up, hyperbaric treatment, supportive care."

"But if you don't know how she got into it, how do you know this is the right answer?"

House felt the same frustration he had earlier with Wilson. Why couldn't the whole world just SEE things? "I'm positive. This is it."

Jensen studied him. The blue lightning in House's eyes was nearly other worldly. At that moment, clearly impatient and frustrated with the slowness of others, his genius was openly on display, and it was the eyes and expression that anyone would have noticed, not the leg, not the crutches. "I think we should believe him."

"There is a test to confirm, but it will take a while. Her brain is starving for oxygen right now. We don't need to wait."

Melissa chewed her lower lip worriedly, looking from her ex-husband to her daughter, then slowly nodded. House immediately turned to Foreman and wavered just a bit on the sudden pivot, and Cuddy grabbed his elbow to steady him. "Hyperbaric chamber, now. Call Taub and Thirteen, get the kids in Middletown started on the same thing, and tell them what they're looking for. If it takes them to tomorrow, fine, but we've got to locate the source of this. Take the one kid who was already in the hospital and was worst; look in that house first. Ask if any of the adults in that house have had flu symptoms."

Foreman nodded. House turned back to Jensen, whose eyes were asking the question, but he didn't voice it. Melissa did. "Will she be okay?"

The puzzle was solved. Long-term effects were out of his hands. "There is a chance for long-term effects, depending on how much oxygen starvation there was in the brain, but she was still conscious - sort of - not too long ago. Hopefully we've caught it in time. Treatment is effective in stopping further damage. I'll know more from the test that tells us what her actual level is." House suddenly felt exhausted himself, the adrenaline from the day draining off, the pain pushing back into the forefront. "I'll stay here tonight in my office. If anything else happens, I'll be here."

Jensen nodded. "Thank you." He bent over Cathy, his hand stroking her hair, as Kutner re-entered the room on a run.

"Hyperbaric chamber is being prepared."

"I'll be in my office. Page me if anything at all comes up." Foreman nodded, and House turned to the door, slowly and wearily that time.

Cuddy kept a hand lightly on his arm as he walked toward the elevator, trying to appear supportive just metaphorically rather than being fully prepared to be supportive physically. "You need to rest and get off your leg. You've been going full speed since 3:00 a.m."

House nodded. "Can't leave her yet, but yes, I plan to get off the leg. You ought to go home and get some rest yourself in bed."

Cuddy shook her head. "I'll stay with you. Besides, Lyla would be at home, and I have officially hit my limit on her for today." And she wanted to keep an eye on House, who suddenly looked absolutely worn out, as well as in pain.

House chuckled. "Lyla can take a number. You think Wilson can keep her out of our hair?" The elevator opened, and he entered. "You can have the Eames chair, though."

"No way." Her voice was absolutely firm. "I'll get a cot brought up. You need the good chair with your leg." He decided that insisting would worry her more and yielded that point reluctantly.

Lyla and Wilson were in House's office, with Wilson looking harried and Lyla looking sulky. "What took you so long?" she demanded as they entered.

"Busy saving a life," House retorted. "I realize we should have catered to your plans instead." Lyla's eyes flared, and he reminded himself to back off. A verbal fight would do him some good at the moment but would stress Cuddy. "We're all ready for dinner now, soon as I grab my jacket."

Lyla exited the office. "It's about time," she insisted. House and Cuddy went deeper into the office, House starting toward his jacket, and Cuddy pushed Wilson out and firmly locked the office door as House locked the one to the conference room and started pulling the blinds.

"Good night," Cuddy said, and House politely echoed her as the blinds shut off the view of the two left outside. He couldn't decide who looked more annoyed, Lyla or Wilson.


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks for the reviews. Here's a sweet Huddy bonus moment for you for today, although there are sweeter coming up.

(H/C)

Cuddy turned from a final check of the blinds to face House, who had collapsed into the Eames chair and gingerly propped his leg up. "Which one of them do you think looked more annoyed?" he asked, the light of mischief behind his eyes.

"Close call. I'm surprised Wilson looked as mad as he did, though. He might have expected that from us."

House shifted slightly, thinking of the MRI that he definitely had no plans for getting tonight. He'd gotten x-rays, and that was enough. "He'd already had a small dose of Lyla while we were with the patient. Small dose is enough. If he's got any sense, he'll ditch her as soon as he can. Better go lock the balcony door, but after that, we're pretty secure here."

Cuddy walked over to lock it, staring out at the darkness outside for a minute. "I'm glad you figured out Jensen's daughter."

"So am I," House said sincerely. "I just hope she recovers well. She made me wonder . . . what Rachel might look like at that age."

She smiled down at the sleeping infant in her arms. "I've often wondered the same thing, seeing the children here. At least now I have. Used to be that they all just represented what I'd never be able to have." House shifted again, and she looked over at him. "Is your ankle hurting much?"

It was, actually, throbbing like the pulsating injuries on cartoons, but that hadn't been what he was thinking about just then. Good excuse, though. "It's aching some," he replied. "Not too bad, though. I swear, I did get it x-rayed. It's just a sprain."

Cuddy came over and handed him Rachel, then suddenly noted the sandwich on the floor and the other sandwich, minus two bites, that was on the shelves next to House's chair. "We have food, even. You're all set up for a night here."

"Wilson was here. He leaves food offerings behind wherever he goes, kind of like his calling card."

"Well, we'll make use of it in a minute." She knelt and removed the air splint, then winced herself. "Greg, that looks awful."

Looking at the insulted joint, he couldn't disagree. "I think I was subconsciously trying to protect my left wrist when I was falling. Definitely did not land on my hands that time, at least, but the leg landed twisted a bit underneath me." He flexed his left wrist, which was steadily improving. "The ankle will be okay in a few weeks, though, and you might have noticed that I actually do have it braced and am using crutches. I'm taking care of it. You don't have to worry."

She shook her head with familiar exasperation. "I think worrying about you is a line in my job description. It goes with the territory, price for having you around." She saw his expression darken, and she immediately backtracked. "Not that I mind. You're worth it, House. You're a little high maintenance, but I wouldn't want you any other way."

He still had the oddest look in his eyes, not just hurt and the old insecurity but something else. She wasn't following him, and that was unusual enough lately that it annoyed her a bit. "I'll try to work on being lower maintenance, then," he said softly.

"House . . .Greg. Stop it. I wasn't complaining."

"I know," he replied, but she still sensed a whole other level to this conversation. "Don't worry about it. I'm not going to run out on you."

She smiled but also wondered why he wanted to give her that particular piece of reassurance then. "What's on your mind the last few days?"

The shields immediately activated. "What makes you think anything is?"

"Give me a little credit, House. I have eyes, plus that woman's intuition they talk about."

He shook his head. "Nothing. It's just been a tough few days weather wise, and then the case with Jensen's daughter, which like I said reminded me of Rachel. I was just worried that I might not be in time to save Cathy. And besides worrying about her, if she died, how could I face Jensen again, have the sessions like we do?" He shivered slightly. "It's getting better. I want things to keep getting better."

"They will, Greg. The future is looking better all the time." She wondered why on earth he suddenly was uncertain about the future tonight, though. Of course, with all his emotional baggage, some days were worse than others over the last few months, but he had in general been making steady progress, and he had made it clear to her many times that he wanted this relationship. She didn't think he was doubting them, but she sensed that he was doubting something tonight.

Rachel stirred at that moment in his arms, waking up, and House smiled down at her. "I know," he told Cuddy. "The future is going to be great, isn't it, kid?" He still seemed uneasy, though, with something extra behind his eyes that she didn't quite grasp. She decided to give him a few days to think on it alone before pushing further. Sometimes, House just needed his space.

She returned her attention to his ankle, probing gently. "House, do you think we could use some ice? While you're awake, I mean, when you know it's coming. It really would help here. This ankle is almost swelling up while I watch; it needs something more."

He tightened up at the mention of ice, then hesitated as if that thought train had a collision with another one, and he looked at her, head slightly tilted, almost as if running a differential. "Okay," he said. "Are you sure the coast is clear?"

She stood and peered out the blinds. No sign of Wilson or Lyla. "Seems to be. I'll be back in a few minutes. Give me your office key, and that way you won't have to get up to let me back in. I don't have my hospital keys on me at the moment, just planned to come through quickly tonight."

He gave her the key, and she left him alone with Rachel. He studied the little girl. "Just you and me, kid. For a few minutes anyway. What would you think of a baby brother or sister?" Rachel cooed happily, reaching for his face. She loved running her hands over his scruff, as if feeling the difference between his face and Cuddy's. He caught himself again wondering what she would look like, what her sibling would look like. Assuming that Cuddy even held the pregnancy. He sure wasn't doing a good job in helping to keep her stress levels down. Yes, he would definitely have to work on being more low maintenance.

Failure here would not be because of him. Maybe it was unavoidable, but he was bound and determined that it would not be because of him.

The lock rattled, taking a few seconds to open, and Cuddy pushed her way back through the blinds. He instantly understood the reason she'd had a bit of trouble with the key. She was carrying a large medical supplies bag, a cup holder from the cafeteria with drinks, and dragging a cot along behind her. He tried to jump up to help and nearly fell off the chair as his ankle and leg yelped. Rachel laughed at the rise and fall, as if she were on her swing, but Cuddy immediately dropped the cot in the doorway and hurried over. "What do you think you're doing? Lie back down and be still. You don't need to be carrying anything."

He opened his eyes again as the pain flare decreased. "And you don't need to be carrying everything. I keep telling you, doing everything isn't in your job description. Why didn't you get a janitor to help?"

"No need. I could handle it." She set down the bag and drinks and went back to retrieve the cot and secure the door.

"Do you want to make it public about us?" he asked abruptly. They'd been trying to practice discretion so far.

She hesitated. "What do you think?"

There was a dilemma. He was perfectly fine with it, but would she worry more about her reputation with this out in the open or less because of not having to hide it any longer? "I'm fine either way," he replied. "Your call. I'm not going anywhere, so whenever you're ready is okay."

She bent over to give him a quick kiss. "Thank you, Greg. I'll think about it. And yes, you're right, I didn't want the janitor to know we were spending the night together up here. It isn't you; I just worry what the board will think sometimes." She fished in her bag and withdrew the large ice pack, taking a moment to rest her warm hand along House's leg in apology before she put the ice over his ankle. He tensed up, and she reached up to catch his hand. "I apologize, but it will help," she said.

"I know." He tried to force his muscles to relax. "It does feel good." It did, too, soothing the angry throbbing a bit. Cuddy fished further in the bag, coming up with a heating pad and putting it across his thigh. He relaxed a bit more.

"Does that help?" she asked, watching him closely.

He nodded. "The difference helps. Nothing was warm with _him._ It was all ice."

She'd hoped that the contrast would make this a little easier for him. "And also, for internal application, hot coffee. I also brought a heated blanket. Your ankle may be cold, but we can warm the rest of you up to compensate."

He accepted the coffee and gave her a blatantly suggestive grin as she spread the blanket over him. "Oh, you think things need warming up? Are you cold too?"

She was pleased that his dark mood of earlier seemed to have left. "I doubt we can get too many fires going without hurting you at the moment, but like you said yourself a while ago, I'm not going anywhere. The future is going to be _great_, House." She pulled the cot alongside to serve as a seat and picked up Wilson's discarded sandwich and her own drink, and they ate together. The warm blanket, warm drink, and most of all warm conversation held the ice at bay, keeping him firmly rooted in the present. Only later after she and Rachel were asleep on the cot, her hand linked with his, did the doubts return.

The past was over. The present was beyond anything he'd hoped for. What did the future hold? Maybe a child, maybe heartbreak - but he was more determined than ever to do all in his power to keep heartbreak from her.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16, and we'll blast off down the hill with 17 tomorrow for the New Year's. Things are about to get VERY complicated. A few readers at the very beginning when it started out so nicely the first few chapters had been a bit worried that I might not have enough problems for our dynamic duo in Raise. I really do not think that's a problem. :) Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was 5:00 a.m. He picked up his pager quickly to look at it, but there were no new messages he'd missed. Hopefully Cathy was stable and improving. His own night had been full of uneasy dreams, not nightmares of the past, just vague dreams of the future, mostly along the theme of Cuddy losing the baby and blaming him for it, and him trying to literally find it, searching through cold, rain, and dark forests, to bring it back to her so she could forgive him. He shuddered.

His ankle protested the motion. He sat up a little straighter in the Eames chair, looking over at Cuddy and Rachel. They were both sound asleep, their two faces together. What would his son or daughter look like? What would she look like with their baby? He smiled to himself. As he'd told Wilson, he was looking forward to this.

Very carefully and slowly, he eased his right leg off the ottoman. Cuddy had resplinted the ankle last night after she'd removed the ice pack. House heaved himself to his feet, scrambling for his balance on the crutches, trying to be quiet. Two steps toward his office door, and then a pain flare stabbed up his leg. He closed his eyes, leaning on the crutches, riding it out without making a sound. Once it started to diminish, he looked back at Cuddy, but she hadn't stirred. He limped on out into the hall.

A few minutes later, he found himself in Cathy's room. She had had a good night, according to her chart notes, and had been conscious and coherent at a few points during it. Her carboxyhemoglobin level was back and, while definitely bad, hadn't been to a level that he would expect permanent complications now that she was getting the oxygen she needed. He stood there just watching her sleep, looking from her to her parents. They had two chairs pulled up directly side by side and were holding hands as they slept. House looked back at Cathy, reaching out to run a hand along her face. "You'll be okay," he said softly, reassuring himself as well as her.

Jensen stirred and opened his eyes. "Everything okay?" he asked softly.

"Fine. She's doing great."

Jensen carefully extricated himself without disturbing Melissa, then stood and came over to touch his daughter lovingly on the forehead. "Want a cup of coffee? I know I could use one, and you look like you could, too."

House nodded, turned toward the door, and wobbled for just a second, although he regained his balance before Jensen could touch him. "Are you okay?" the psychiatrist asked.

"I'm just still getting the hang of using the crutches with the left wrist still not fully mobile." He started out of the room toward the elevator, and Jensen followed him.

"Thank you," Jensen said when they were alone in the elevator.

House shrugged. "It's my job," he replied. True enough, but he was very glad he'd managed to solve this one.

Jensen gave him a penetrating look. "That's not all it means to you, and you know it."

"I thought you offered coffee, not a therapy session."

"There weren't any strings attached. I really was just offering coffee." Jensen studied him. House didn't look like he had slept well, and he was definitely a bit edgy this morning. "Anyway, I wasn't finished. I wasn't just thanking you for Cathy, although I'll be grateful to you forever for that. I was going to say, Melissa and I haven't spent this much time together this closely since the divorce. She's still a bit annoyed, but I think she's starting to see my patients as people, too, not just as an impersonal job. You did that. You made her look at you as a person and as somebody worthwhile, not just as a chart that represented what kept me away from them." He sighed. "Not that I'm saying I didn't have anything to do with our breakup. I had a lot to do with it. There were lots of times when they got shortchanged, even though I tried to balance it out. It is a demanding job, especially being on staff at hospitals and getting emergency calls, too. There were times I should have made more effort for them."

House tilted his head, fascinated at this sort of reverse on their usual talks, at revelations about Jensen instead of about himself. He, too, could use the reminder that the psychiatrist was a person and not just a therapist behind a desk. "Are you thinking of getting back together?" he asked.

"I don't know," Jensen answered honestly. "There's a lot to work through. But we are _talking_ now, better than we had been in a few years. We were always pretty civil, but it was purely about Cathy. She didn't want to let me see any of the rest of her life anymore. I don't know if we'll get back together or not, but I do think we're in a lot better place with each other than we were before this. Crises can bring people together sometimes, and she can see now that family really does matter to me, even if I failed at times in fully communicating that to her."

The elevator opened, and they exited and headed for the cafeteria, which was almost deserted at this hour. They had no problems at all finding a private table, and House pulled the next chair over and gingerly propped his leg up, wincing, as Jensen obtained two coffees. "What was the verdict on your leg?" Jensen asked, setting House's cup down in front of him.

"It's just sprained. Bad sprain, but no fracture. I did get checked out medically." House flipped the subject back off himself. "Why did you become a psychiatrist?"

"One of my aunts was married to a man who was bipolar, only we didn't understand it as well back then. There were a lot of difficult years before he finally got help. I saw the before - and the after, when he finally was on a med regime that worked and was sticking to it. It made me want to make that much difference to people, hopefully even sooner in the picture. It also made me realize that mental illness is no different than physical in a lot of ways. No shame in it, just need for help. A lot of people didn't realize that when I was growing up."

"A lot of people still don't," House agreed. He took a few swallows of his coffee.

"Why did you become a doctor?" Jensen asked with curiosity.

House debated for a few seconds, then obligingly answered. "When I was growing up, when we lived in Japan for a while, I wound up at the hospital with a friend who'd been hurt rock-climbing. The janitor was there - and I saw how everybody treated him. But then there was a case that no one else could solve, and they had to come to him for the answer. He was an outcast, and he still got their respect in the end. At least professionally, even if they'd never give it personally." He looked up from contemplation of his coffee to find Jensen's eyes on him in full analysis. "This _isn't _a session," he repeated firmly. "Not right here, and I don't feel like one anyway. So stop thinking so loudly."

"I didn't say anything," Jensen replied amiably. His mind was indeed racing off at full gallop, though. _He was an outcast, and he still got their respect in the end. At least professionally, even if they'd never give it personally._ Wow. Any psychiatrist could have a heyday prying apart all the layers of that statement. "Speaking of not feeling like a session, are you sure you're all right physically? You look a bit ragged this morning."

"Sleeping in the office does that for you. You don't look your best, either."

"Touche." Jensen took a few gulps of his own coffee. "Nothing against your hospital, but hospital chairs simply aren't the greatest accommodations out there for overnights."

"I also just hurt myself yesterday, remember. That doesn't add much to the sleeping in the office experience. I'm fine, just a little tired and hurting." His cell phone rang at that point, and he pulled it out, then answered. "Good morning. . . yes, I'm fine. Down in the cafeteria having coffee with Jensen. . . It's okay. Still aching some, but not too bad . . . probably I could get away. Cathy seems stable. I'll meet you back upstairs in a few minutes, and we'll both take today off and finish out the weekend. How's that sound? . . . Right, see you then. Tell Rachel good morning for me." He snapped the phone shut and took the last few swallows of his coffee. "I'm leaving, but my team will be around during the day keeping an eye on things, and you can always call or page me if anything comes up. She should be stable, though. Maybe another hyperbaric treatment today, keep the high-dose oxygen up." He gingerly lowered his leg from the chair and stood up. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Thank you . . . for everything," Jensen replied. House flinched and turned away. Jensen watched House limp out of the cafeteria and shook his head, still busy working out all the complicated layers of Gregory House.

(H/C)

Wilson was entering the hospital just as Cuddy, House, and Rachel exited the elevators into the lobby. Fortunately, there weren't many people around at this hour on a Sunday morning. "Good morning, Wilson," House said with exaggerated brightness. "How was your date last night?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "If you weren't on crutches, I'd be tempted to slap you. Leaving me stuck with her like that. Have you ever spent a few hours straight with her?"

"Yes," both House and Cuddy replied in unison.

"Anyway, I finally convinced her to just go back to your house, Cuddy. She was in full-blown sulk. I suggested going out shopping today; that always makes women feel better."

"I could suggest a location for her to shop in," House remarked. Cuddy snickered. "Well, got to run, figuratively speaking. We have pillows awaiting us at home."

Wilson abruptly remembered his primary reason for coming in on Sunday and this early. He'd meant to nail House down on a physical exam. "House, could I talk to you for a minute alone?"

"No," House replied.

"Why?" Cuddy asked, a frown of worry creasing her forehead. "Is something going on I don't know about?"

She was watching Wilson, which gave House an open opportunity to fix his friend with a steely glare without her seeing. "He was just going to give me a lecture on taking care of myself, since I'm hurt right now. But we were just heading home, and I promise to spend all day resting with my foot propped up. Cuddy will be keeping an eye on me. You don't have to worry about it."

Wilson ran through a quick mental differential himself. House's eyes were absolutely unyielding. The oncologist knew he was serious - push on with this right now in front of Cuddy, and it would be the end of the friendship.

"Don't worry, Wilson, I'll be taking care of him," Cuddy put in. "Did you need us for anything else?"

Wilson's eyes fell away from House's blue lasers. "No. Have a restful day, you two. At least as much as you can with Lyla around."

Cuddy immediately pulled out her cell phone as they started off again. "Lyla? I'm so sorry about last night; there was a very complicated case that came up. But I wanted to ask you a favor. There's a massive sale at the mall in Philadelphia today on shoes, and I'd meant to go, but I'm still tied up here. Could you please go today and get me a few pair? We always wore the same size, so you can just try them on yourself. Thanks so much; I'll pay you back. See you later." She snapped the phone shut and shot House a mission accomplished look. "She'll be out the door in 15 minutes, wanting to be there when they open. She loves shoe shopping, any kind of shopping really. And there really is a sale. That should keep her busy most of the day."

"Hate to imagine what she's going to buy for you - while of course getting the ones you'd really like for herself."

Cuddy smiled. "It's a very small price to pay. Come on, let's go home."

Side by side, they exited the hospital.


	17. Chapter 17

This chapter and the next are two of my favorites in this story.

(H/C)

Most of Sunday passed fairly peacefully. Taub called mid morning to report that a malfunctioning furnace had been found in the basement of Cathy's friend's house, the basement where the kids' playroom was. With the kids spending time right next to the new problem, they had showed symptoms sooner than the adults, but everybody in that family was getting treatment now. House and Cuddy both joined Rachel in a nap after lunch. It was a nice chance for some breathing space after the hectic pace of the last few days, but House kept finding his thoughts going back to the subject of family. Such a domestic day - something he would have sneered and rolled his eyes at a few months ago, something which suddenly seemed precious now. What would it be like in a year? If their child was - he paused for mental math - born in mid January, this time next year toward the end of April, Rachel would be nearly a year and a half, and the baby would be three months old. And hopefully Cuddy would be his wife. He pictured Oma's ring, and then he pictured Oma herself, the one relative of his childhood to whom he had felt a flicker of real connection.

A cup of hot chocolate suddenly appeared under his nose, interrupting his thoughts. "What galaxy were you off in?" Cuddy asked, kneeling beside the couch along which he was stretched out. Rachel was playing with her bear in her playpen in the corner.

He started to dodge, then decided he could afford part of the truth on that one. "I was thinking about my grandmother," he said. He took a sip and half choked, abruptly realizing what the offering was. "Hot chocolate?"

"Yes. Hot sweetness to contrast with - other things. We really need to ice your ankle some more. The swelling is still more than I'd like to see, even with you staying off it today."

House abruptly shivered, his thoughts of Oma replaced with mental caves of ice. Cuddy put a hand on his arm. "Hey, come on. I'll be right here, and it will help. And also," she fished around the floor beside her, "I brought the heating pad and a blanket. We'll get you all wrapped up, plus the hot chocolate. Plus me." She placed the heating pad on his thigh, then tucked the blanket around him thoroughly. "Back in a minute." Going to the freezer, she removed a few bags of frozen peas and corn, then returned and carefully unwrapped the blanket from only the right foot and ankle. She removed the splint, bent over to kiss the swollen ankle, and then packed the whole joint thoroughly with the vegetables.

House tightened up and took another few gulps of hot chocolate, suddenly appreciating the sticky sweetness, and Cuddy pulled the blanket back over his foot and then came up to sit on the end of the couch, letting him lean against her instead of against the arm. Tucking the blanket in a little tighter, she wrapped her arms around him. "Was your grandmother nice?" she asked tentatively. She always hesitated to explore anything to do with his childhood, since almost nothing of it had been either pleasant or typical. Still, he hadn't seemed disturbed before, and if he had been lost in thoughts, they had appeared to be pleasant ones.

"She was a character. We only stayed with her that one summer for a few months, but she was the first person I'd ever run into who could show authority and set limits without making it a military training exercise." He suddenly shivered again, and Cuddy tightened up her grip on him, guiding the cup to his lips herself.

"Here, take another drink of that. Forget all the rest of them. Did you like her? You sounded like you might have."

"I hardly _knew_ her. I wish I had, though. I called her Oma. It's Dutch for grandmother."

"Are there pictures of her anywhere? I'd like to see what she looked like."

"Mom might have some. I don't remember pictures, but that doesn't mean they weren't around. I was a little . . . distracted." He abruptly changed the subject, obviously unable to stay on the few pleasant parts of his past without diving back into the icy memories of the others. "What do you think about getting Rachel a little piano?"

"She's a little young, don't you think, Greg?"

"It's best to start young."

"Well, I think she at least needs to start talking and walking first. Not that I'm against the idea, understand, I just think it would still be a bit premature. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's let her grow a little more. Maybe for Christmas, okay?"

Christmas. When Cuddy would be 8 months pregnant. Or would she still be? In all his years growing up, the holiday had been negative. Was that an omen? This Christmas as much of a failure as ever? Like all those others . . . He suddenly shivered again as his thoughts plunged back into ice. "Damn it."

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Cuddy tightened up her grip on him. "Greg, it's okay. Here." She lifted the cup again. "Drink another few swallows of that, and then just lie back and put your head in my lap." He obeyed, and she tucked the blanket back in tightly, trying to make him a cocoon of warmth, then just held his head, stroking his hair softly. "It's okay," she repeated. "The past is over. We're talking about the future now, and that's going to be wonderful." Obviously Christmas hadn't been much of a safe subject to bring up either. She wondered again why he hated Christmas and his birthday so much. What else had that bastard done to him?

The door abruptly rattled, and Lyla entered with an entire collection of shopping bags. "Oh, Lisa, you won't _believe_ what I found in Philly." She stopped abruptly, staring at the scene of House in Cuddy's lap, the tightly wrapped blanket around him, her expression pure tenderness and concern. "What's the matter? Have you got the flu or something?"

House started to sit up a bit, but Cuddy held him, refusing to drop the contact that she knew was holding him back from the edge right now just because her sister had come in. He accepted it, putting his head back down. "I sprained my ankle yesterday. You ought to remember that," House answered with a bit of an edge in his tone.

Lyla heard the exasperation and willingly rose to the challenge, still annoyed by their tricking her last night. She studied the blanket, the hot chocolate on the coffee table, the immediate - very immediate - closeness of Cuddy. "Boy, you're milking it for all you can get, too, aren't you? It's just a sprained ankle. Act like a man. You need to toughen up."

House abruptly tightened up, her words, so similar to his father's, combining with the ice which already had him so much on edge. He fought the spinning whirlpool of memories in his mind. Not now, damn it. He couldn't stress out Cuddy. He tried desperately to hang onto the present, aware dimly through a roaring in his ears of raised voices somewhere beyond him as the conversation continued, but the ice was expanding now, climbing up his leg to engulf his whole body, leaving him helplessly frozen in its grip, and his mind began to supply its own dialogue from memory.

Cuddy saw his eyes lose focus and knew what was coming. She took a second to gently move his head aside, then came up off the couch like a rocket. "Lyla, get out!" she demanded, absolute fury in her voice.

"What?"

"GET OUT." Cuddy stalked down the hall to the guest bedroom, returning a moment later with Lyla's suitcase. She opened the door and literally threw the suitcase out onto the front lawn, then grabbed handfuls of shopping bags and sent them flying to join it. "Get out of my house, get out of my life, and don't even think about coming back unless it's with a sincere apology."

"Lisa, what are - "

With all bags outside now, Cuddy grabbed Lyla, propelling her out the door as well, slamming the front door shut behind them. She'd been trying to control herself inside, but now she really let go. "What the HELL do you think gives you the right to go barging into MY house and criticizing him? He's HURT."

"Honestly, Lisa, THAT'S your idea of a man? So he sprained his ankle. He doesn't have to make a federal case out of it. Why not some chicken soup, too? And Mommy sitting there hovering over him to try to make it better. How old is he anyway, SIX?"

Their voices were easily carrying up and down the street, as well as into the house behind them. Cuddy shoved Lyla on down the sidewalk. "Lyla, you have ten minutes to load your car and get off my front yard, and then I'm calling the police. Forget about apologizing; you're not worth it. Get the hell out of here." Her hands were shaking with the effort not to hit her sister. They heard Rachel start to cry inside, and Cuddy began to turn.

"Can't he get her? Can't he do ANYTHING? I know you're desperate by now, but even you can do better than this. We need to talk, Lisa."

Cuddy spun back suddenly, slapping Lyla smack across the face. Her sister staggered back, eyes wide. "NO, we DON'T. You have nine minutes left before I call the police." She turned and yanked the front door open, hurtling through, and took a moment even in her worry to lock it behind her.

Rachel was crying in the playpen, obviously upset at the loud voices. House was curled up as near as he could get into a ball on the couch, although his right leg clearly wasn't cooperating. He was completely under the blanket, head included, pressed as far as he could get into the back of the cushions, and his whole body was shaking. Cuddy hovered for a split second of indecision, then grabbed Rachel from the playpen, taking the easier problem to fix first, and besides, Rachel's cries no doubt weren't doing much for House anyway. Then she hurried to the couch, ripping the blanket off his feet first of all, snatching the packs of icy vegetables and literally throwing them into the floor behind her. She quickly tossed the blanket back over his feet, then sat down on the other end of the couch, pulling him over into her lap, letting him stay under the blanket for the moment. "Greg, it's okay," she said softly, forcing her voice into calm reassurance instead of a worried shriek, which was more what she felt like. "Greg. She's gone. It's over. And he's gone, too. He's dead." She rocked her body back and forth, her voice a soothing croon, words meant for him but the tone also soothing Rachel, who gradually stopped crying and progressed to the sniffling stage. "It's okay. It's all over."

She could tell when he started responding to her after a few minutes, though his breathing was still far too fast, his body still shivering. "It's okay," she kept repeating. "I'm here. I apologize that you had to hear that." Slowly the tremors began to subside, his breathing leveling out. "It's okay. It's over. The past as well as Lyla. I just threw her out." She looked at her watch. "In fact, I need to check in a few minutes, make sure she's really gone. If she hasn't left by now, I need to call the police." A weak chuckle came from underneath the blanket, and Cuddy began to relax slightly. He was coming out of the flashback. "It's okay."

Another few minutes, and then a low voice came through the blanket. "M'sorry."

She winced and tried not to let it show in her tone. "You have nothing to apologize for, Greg. In fact, I've wanted to tell Lyla off like that for years and never quite got up the courage to do it. Thank you; I enjoyed it, or would have if it hadn't hurt you in the process." She never stopped rocking slightly. Rachel was starting to get drowsy at the motion. House was far from drowsy; she could still feel the tension in him, but at least he seemed to be getting oriented again now. Damn Lyla. "It's okay, Greg," she repeated, not asking him any questions, just reassuring him.

Suddenly, his whole body tensed up even more, and he crashed back through the blanket like a swimmer breaking the surface of the water on his way up from the bottom. "Are you okay?"

She was so surprised she stopped rocking. "Am _I _okay?" she repeated, puzzled. His blue eyes had a nearly frantic expression as they explored her face.

"She didn't upset you too much, did she?"

"Greg, Lyla has been upsetting me all my life. Like I said, that actually felt good. I've wanted to do that forever." She gave him a reassuring squeeze, then stood up. "Just a second. Let me see if she's gone." Cuddy peered out the window. It was nearer twenty minutes than ten by this point, but Lyla apparently had left, as she and her luggage had vanished. "She's gone. Good riddance." She returned to the couch. "Can you hold Rachel a minute, please? I want to check on your leg." He was looking a bit sheepish now, as usual after a bad flashback. Not that he had them often, thank God. He hadn't had one in weeks, but between the ice and Lyla's unfortunate choice of words, the double trigger had been more than he could stand. He slid up a bit to prop his back against the armrest, then held out his hands, and she passed him her sleepy daughter and carefully pulled the blanket back again to reveal his foot.

The ankle was massively swollen and discolored, and he had probably annoyed it even more in his escape attempts to retreat from the ice. With the splint off, it had had no protection. She carefully probed it, and he flinched. "I don't . . . think we'd better use any more ice tonight," he said softly.

"I agree." Her voice was perfectly calm, almost as if they were discussing the weather, although mentally she was tossing several more slaps at Lyla. She could tell his pain levels physically in addition to mentally were through the roof at the moment. "Still too soon after the injury to have a hot soak. What say we go ahead and have dinner - it won't be too early - and then just go on to bed?" He tensed up slightly. "And under the circumstances," she continued, perfectly steady, "what about not cutting the dose in half tonight? Just for tonight. You need some rest, and you're going to have a hard time getting it with this ankle throbbing so much." Not to mention memories that the final echoes of this afternoon's fight might trigger. "Zolpidem is safer than a knock-out dose of Vicodin, although we might raise the Vicodin a little bit for tonight, too. You need something stronger than usual tonight, Greg. I can tell how much your leg is hurting."

He debated, studying her as if reading some invisible whiteboard on her face. "Let me call and check on Cathy," he said finally. "I'll do that while you cook. If she's still stable and responding to treatment, then all right."

"Thank you, Greg." She checked the distal pulses in his foot, just as a precaution, then carefully reapplied the air splint, making sure it was adjusted to accommodate the swelling. She then propped the ankle on a pillow, reset the heating pad on his thigh, and straightened out the blanket to cover him again. When she had finished with that, she stood and walked back to the head of the couch. "I meant what I said. I've wanted to do that for years. You didn't push me into anything that I haven't dreamed of anyway. In fact, you didn't push me into anything at all. Lyla started it."

He gave her a weak smile. "I hope she stays gone."

Cuddy returned it. "I threw the shopping bags out with her. _All_ of the shopping bags. I hope she bought me some of the ugliest shoes in Philadelphia, since now she's stuck with them."

His smile strengthened. "So Lyla's stuck with ugly shoes, and you and Rachel are stuck with me."

She leaned over to kiss him. "Bargain of the decade."

(H/C)

The next morning, House hobbled into PPTH on the crutches, feeling a bit better for a sound if artificial night's rest. He checked Cathy's chart first of all - she was doing fine - and then went up into the conference room. Only Kutner was there. "Where are the short one, the skinny one, and the black one?"

"Taub and Thirteen are in the clinic, and Foreman is off somewhere."

"And yet you aren't. Nor do you even have a chart as an excuse." House poured his coffee, then awkwardly limped back over to the table with the cup wedged in his right hand along with his crutch. Kutner forced himself to watch and not offer help. He was about to be in enough hot water without adding more. "So," House concluded, "why are you so obviously waiting here?"

"I wanted to ask if you ever got thoroughly checked out this weekend."

"Yes, I did. Complete x-rays and all. Odd, I thought I remembered you being there, but I must have been in a parallel universe."

"I mean more of an exam than I did." Kutner sighed. "I saw that fall, House. That wasn't losing your balance."

House was starting to get annoyed. "Were you the one who set Wilson on me? He said he just came along, but the timing was awfully coincidental. I told you, I turned too fast."

Kutner shook his head. "Your balance is off, but it didn't cause that fall right then. Something happened first, and you reacted to that even before you fell. What was that?" House was silent, but his eyes had gone through frosty to frozen. "And the leg has been hurting more for the last week." Kutner doggedly stuck to his guns, trying to keep his amiable expression pasted on, but he had concluded last night that making sure House was all right might even be worth his job, and once he'd looked in the database, he could find no record of any further tests for House this weekend, not under his own name or any likely pseudonym. Wilson apparently hadn't been able to convince him solo.

House was way past annoyed now. "It's none of your business, Kutner. I'm fine. Leave it alone."

"Yes, actually, it is my business, since my job sort of depends on you being alive and healthy."

"We could change that," House suggested with ice in his voice. "If I fire you, it won't."

"House, there is something wrong here. I'm not saying I have to do it, but please, get checked out. This isn't just turning too fast, either, or the weather. Just from what I've noticed, which I'm sure isn't everything, that doesn't always match up. Think about it. Has every single time your leg acted up lately been tied to turning too fast?"

"There's NOTHING that's happened every single . . ." House was getting mad enough now that he forget his denials, but that sentence crashed to a halt part way through as House's eyes abruptly focused into the distance. Kutner knew the look.

"House? What is it?"

House abruptly put down his coffee, balanced himself on the crutches, and turned for the door. "Need to talk to Wilson. I owe him some money." He limped out, leaving his young fellow sitting at the table and wondering not only what the epiphany was but also whether he still had a job or not.

House limped down the corridor toward the oncologist's office, his thoughts flying a thousand miles a second. Damn. He didn't like the answer at all, but it fit. It fit perfectly. _Every single time._ How could he have failed to assemble the puzzle pieces? He just hoped he had realized the problem soon enough that he could get treatment quietly without worrying Cuddy any more than he already had. He burst into Wilson's office without knocking, and the oncologist looked up from his desk with a resigned sigh. "Why yes, good morning to you, too, House."

House ignored him, jumping straight to the pertinent diagnostic fact. "I need an MRI."


	18. Chapter 18

Fasten your seatbelts. Thanks as always for the reviews.

(H/C)

Wilson carefully followed House's painfully slow progress into the MRI room. Since House had changed into an examination gown in the adjacent room - metal zippers in jeans do not mix with MRIs - and had at that point removed the splint, his ankle was totally unsupported, and his shaky and painful balance was even worse. Wilson breathed a soft sigh of relief as House made it to the machine. "Need some help getting up?"

"If we want to get this done before Christmas," House retorted. He dropped the crutches, bracing himself with both hands against the table and taking a second to run a quick flexion check on his left wrist, which was slowly improving but not normal yet. Wilson grabbed House under the shoulders, and he lifted as House pushed off on the left leg. It worked, but Wilson could hear his breathing. He stepped back, giving House a minute to sit on the edge of the table and recover before putting him in the machine. Besides, it was a good opportunity for a direct examination, since House was apparently finally going to be cooperative at least for the moment. Better act quickly before he changed his mind.

The oncologist started at the thigh, feeling carefully down the ugly scar. House rolled his eyes but did not protest. The leg was a bit swollen and somewhat irritated, but no more than could be explained by the effect of the ankle. Wilson moved on to the ankle and whistled under his breath. "Wow." It looked even worse than on Saturday.

"Is that a medical diagnosis? I'll have to remember that one for the whiteboard some time. Or maybe use it as the final impression in a chart."

"Are you SURE this isn't fractured?"

"Kutner took a whole set of x-rays. Look them up yourself. Or, since we happen to have an MRI machine right here, you could just run a scan. What a coincidence."

Wilson grinned at House's tone and straightened up. "Okay, I'll move the leg up and over while you lie down." He gingerly picked up the ankle, trying to be gentle and making sure to keep it aligned. This had to be one of the worst sprains he'd ever seen, assuming it was just a sprain. Kutner himself had verified the x-rays to Wilson on the phone. Still, he'd be sure to get a thorough look at it. House lay back, not making a sound as Wilson swung his right leg over, although his face tightened up. "You okay?" the oncologist asked.

"Peachy," House replied in clipped tones. "Let's get it over with."

Wilson hit the button to move the table fully into the metal tube, then went into the control room. He started the scan, watching the screen closely but occasionally looking over at the face camera, at House. He looked tense and in pain. Wilson tried to come up with a catchy God accent but couldn't manufacture one today. "You should tell her, you know."

"I said you could examine the leg, not my decisions with Cuddy. Besides, she certainly has all available data that I do. She'll work it out herself before too long."

"And then you'll still be worried. If you'll be worried before and after, why not just go ahead and jump to after?"

"It's about HER, you idiot. She'll be thinking about miscarriage the moment she realizes it." House sighed. "What about the leg?"

Wilson was taking his time, taking advantage of this opportunity for the most thorough scan he could perform. "Thigh looks somewhat inflamed and annoyed, but no more than you might expect from reaction to the ankle injury. You're probably tightening up to guard it. Plus the splint alone weights the whole leg differently, even without putting weight on the foot, and with this much muscle missing . . ."

"I took anatomy 101 myself, remember. I even passed it. Tell me something I can't tell you from in here."

Wilson rolled his eyes and went on. "No clots. No tears of any tissue. No lesions. I'm just not seeing anything acute here I'd say dates from before the ankle. Working down through the knee now, again, there's some inflammation there, no acute injury. Knee ligaments look good. Arthritic changes of the knee, which don't look worse than your last MRI a few months ago. Calf muscles are annoyed, too, but circulation is good. Down to the ankle . . . Wow."

"You already called it that. Care to elaborate?"

The oncologist went very slowly and carefully through the ankle. "Grade III sprain. The anterior talofibular ligament is completely torn. Severe swelling and inflammation, but I don't see a fracture. Still, Kutner was right to immobilize it." He carefully went through the ankle several times, just to make sure, then continued on down through the foot. "Some arthritic changes through the foot, which were also on the last MRI." He stared at the scan on the toes - four out of five, every one on his right foot except the big toe, had multiple old fractures. Wilson didn't mention that, but he shuddered, wondering again what father could possibly deliberately and systematically inflict such damage on his child. He wondered again, not for the first time lately, exactly what a full body scan on House would turn up, just how many injuries he and Cuddy still didn't know about, possibly even ones that House himself had forgotten or blocked out.

Wait a minute. He had House in the scanner now. He could just proceed beyond the leg . . . With a sigh, Wilson firmly pulled his hands away from the controls, removing himself from temptation. It wasn't his business. He had no right to go beyond the authorized exam.

"Gone to sleep in there?" House asked, sarcasm dripping off his tone and almost hiding the tension underneath it.

"All done." Wilson stood and came back into the main room, pushing the button to release House from the tube.

"So in other words, nothing's wrong with the leg except for a badly sprained ankle and generalized reaction to it."

"Nothing that I could find." Wilson dribbled his fingers on the table. "There's still last week."

"When we had a major weather front."

"And your fall when you hurt the ankle," the oncologist continued.

"I turned around too fast. I'd been standing still for too long, and when somebody called me, I just turned around too fast, and the leg gave out."

"But why did you suddenly decide today that you wanted the MRI?"

"To rule things out. I knew I'd never get you off my back otherwise. So now we know nothing's wrong, and you can forget this whole episode. There's nothing for you to tell Cuddy, because there isn't a problem." House had his stubborn look, and Wilson knew he wouldn't get past that road-closed sign.

Wilson handed him the crutches again. "Keep that ankle splinted for a couple of weeks, absolutely not weightbearing at the moment. It's not stable; you'd kill yourself if you try to use the cane. You're probably looking at physical therapy, too. The ligament shouldn't require surgery if you take care of it, but this is a serious sprain, and it's going to take a while to heal. Elevate it as much as you can. You're already on prescription-strength anti-inflammatories."

"Thought you were an oncologist, not an orthopedist. Oh well, they both start with the same letter."

"And really, it might be a good idea if you'd use a . . ."

"No." House heaved himself off the table onto the crutches and wavered slightly, and Wilson reached out to steady him. "Crutches, okay, but no wheelchair. Relax; I won't try using the cane until it's a lot better. I'll keep weight off it."

Wilson sighed. The problem was, House did not appear anywhere close to steady on the crutches. "Just take it easy. Move gradually when you change position, and slow down. Your balance isn't right at the moment because of the ankle." Wilson hesitated. "Unless . . . have you been having any neurological symptoms at all? Dizziness? Vertigo?"

House rolled his eyes. "Want to run an MRI on my brain while you're at it? NO, I haven't been having neurological symptoms. The ONLY symptoms over the last week have been in the leg." That was so firm that Wilson actually believed him. House didn't sound defensive, just impatient.

"Just . . . be careful. Okay?"

"Relax," House told him again. "Just like I've been telling you, other than the ankle now, there's nothing wrong with the leg." He hobbled out of the room to go change again, leaving Wilson standing there watching him and then, obsessively, going back for one more review of the recorded scans.

(H/C)

House hobbled awkwardly into Cathy's room, his leg protesting each step. Jensen was sitting by her bed just watching her, and Melissa was curled up in the chair asleep. Cathy herself was soundly asleep, and House studied the monitors. All improving steadily. She was stable now.

Jensen looked up at him. "Hi. How's she doing?"

"Looking good. You'll have to watch her for a while for possible late effects, but I think she's going to be just fine." House trailed off, and Jensen studied him curiously.

"And what was the rest of that sentence?"

"Could we, um, talk for a while? Not about Cathy. She's perfectly stable, and she should be mostly sleeping at the moment."

Jensen immediately stood up, brushing Cathy's forehead with his hand and then leaning over to kiss her. "Sure. I owe you a lot more than that." He saw House flinch. "You really don't know how to deal with gratitude, do you?" He was pulling a small notepad out as he spoke, and he jotted down a note for Melissa, then put it on the bedside table.

House shook his head. "It's not gratitude. It's . . . I don't like people doing things just because they think they owe me."

Jensen sighed. "Is obligation the only reason that people might want to do things for you? You really think it could never just be because they liked you, or really were grateful? Or would it make you feel better if I say I'll send you a bill? I'm sure you'll send me one."

House shrugged. "I imagine the hospital will. I actually don't keep up much with the financial flow-sheets. It's probably in there somewhere, but I honestly don't know who bills for me or how they figure it." Jensen shook his head, smiling at that clearly honest assessment which would have many doctors he knew horrified.

They exited Cathy's room, both immediately dropping the conversation as they stepped into the public hallway. House stopped and stood for a minute leaning on his crutches, thinking. His office was out. The cafeteria was obviously out. Someplace private, where Cuddy wasn't apt to find him. His first impulse was the roof, and he looked down at his splinted ankle with a sigh. Jensen waited patiently, figuring out that House was deciding where to go, but his own curiosity, personally and professionally, was rising. Whatever they were going to talk about, he had the distinct impression that this was major, probably a breakthrough of some sort in this very complicated and interesting patient.

House finally started off, heading for the elevator, and Jensen didn't comment as they took it to the top floor. That just left the flight of stairs to the roof, and Jensen forced himself not to ask if House needed help, although he deliberately stayed right behind him, ready to catch him instantly if he started to fall. He knew from the slightly irritated set of House's shoulders that House had noticed this, but neither of them said a word until House had hauled his slow and painful way up the steps and stepped out onto the roof.

It wasn't that cold this morning, with spring in the air, and a light wind was blowing. House limped to the wall and hauled himself up onto it, pushing off his left leg, finally with difficulty winding up on top with both legs stretched out along the wall and his back against the building. His right hand massaged his thigh, and he pulled out his Vicodin and gulped down two.

Jensen propped his back against the wall alongside and waited.

"I was thinking a while ago," House started. "I was wondering about my leg. It's been hurting more for just over a week, and there have also been several times when there was a sudden, extremely sharp pain flare. Not my usual pain. When I sprained my ankle was one, and that's why I fell. There have been others; several times I came close to falling lately. Also, my whole balance seems off, not systemically, just in how the leg itself feels and reacts to things. I tried to convince myself it was the weather, but the timing didn't totally match."

"Have you been thoroughly checked out physically?" Jensen asked.

"Yes. I just had an MRI, actually. It shows general inflammation, nothing acute other than the ankle. No clots. Nothing that needs treatment other than with the meds I'm already on." House looked over at Jensen. "I didn't expect it to show any new problem. I was just ruling things out medically, because I'd had an idea right before that." He hesitated again, and Jensen gave him time. "Just over a week ago, I realized . . . something. That is precisely when my leg started to hurt more at baseline, and every single time through the last week that I've had those strong pain flares, I had immediately before that been actively thinking about the same thing. Every time." He looked away, out over Princeton. "I think I'm developing a new way to psych myself out." He shook his head, and his tone was fully appreciating the irony. "Time after time over the years, Wilson and Cuddy would try to tell me my pain was just psychosomatic, and I would resist the idea. Of course, sometimes there was some injury at those points that they didn't know about, so they didn't have all the data. But now, I'm starting to think this whole last week really has been psychosomatic, at least the worsening over baseline, and it's Wilson who's trying to find the purely medical explanation. Talk about role reversal."

Jensen considered that revelation. "What was it that you realized a week ago?" House immediately tightened up on him. "It's clearly extremely relevant. I don't think I'm going to be able to help you with this fully unless I know."

House sighed. "It's a _good_ thing. At least I thought it was . . ."

"Have you talked to Dr. Cuddy about it?"

"NO!" That got such a sharp and instant reflexive tightening that House hurt his leg more doing it, and his hand clawed at his thigh.

Jensen watched him. "I see. So it _involves _Dr. Cuddy. Let me guess; is she pregnant?" House's expression was enough to confirm it. "Does she realize that?"

"Not yet."

"You're sure that she is?"

"Positive at this point. I've seen her pregnant before, and I'm even more attuned to her lately."

"And you mentioned once that she has a history of problems maintaining pregnancy." House nodded. "So you're trying _not_ to tell her, trying not to add any stress on her or make her worry, to avoid adding any more risk of miscarriage."

House nodded again. "Soon as she realizes, she'll be chewing mentally over her own past history. In fact, I think maybe subconsciously she's been a bit slow to realize it because she's afraid to think she is. Although it is very early."

"Earlier than the periods at which she miscarried before?"

"Yes." House looked at the psychiatrist. "So short of telling her she's pregnant, which is not going to happen until she works it out herself, how do I treat psychosomatic pain in the meantime? Telling myself nothing's really wrong doesn't seem to be working; I've already tried that for a week even before I knew it was true."

Jensen sighed. "Have you talked to _anybody_?"

"I told Wilson a few days ago, but only to keep him from running straight to her. He was worried about my leg hurting me more. The last thing she needs is to get physically concerned about me right now; I've put her through enough the last few months."

"Put her through enough. Interesting way of phrasing it. I'm sure she's had plenty of pleasant memories from those same months. You have also apparently given her the one thing you've said she's always wanted."

"If she keeps it."

"So did you tell Dr. Wilson about your concerns?"

"Yes. We talked about it in extreme medical detail all the way to Mayfield the other night. That's the only real discussion I've had about it with anyone, and then getting out of the car right after that, the leg seized up, and I nearly fell over in front of him."

"I actually meant your own concerns. Not about Dr. Cuddy's medical history, but about your worries over being an adequate father." House's silence was enough answer to that. "Dr. House, you need to talk to someone."

"I thought that was what we were doing."

"Not only with me. Especially, I think you and Dr. Cuddy need to talk."

House shook his head vigorously. "I am NOT going to cost her this by stressing her out." His leg obviously cramped up at that moment, and both hands clutched at it, his balance wavering slightly and then stabilizing. "_Damn it,_" he hissed.

Jensen reached out and put his hands on the leg, too, and after a moment House let go and sat up straight again. Jensen could get a better position and working angle anyway. The psychiatrist carefully massaged the leg, trying to work out the knots. The entire thigh was in spasm so tightly that it made his own hands hurt trying to manipulate it. Even when it started to release finally, it was still literally quivering a bit under his hands. Psychosomatic or not, the pain had to be intense enough that he realized anew just how stoic House could be when he wished. He looked up at his face. The diagnostician was leaning his head back against the building, eyes closed.

"Is that better?" Jensen asked.

House gave a tight nod. Obviously, better was relative. "This is stupid. _It isn't real."_ He was getting annoyed at himself.

"No, it just isn't physical. It definitely _is _real. And given your injuries, it's probably a combination at this point." Jensen debated how best to navigate this current minefield. For the moment, he backed away from discussing talking to Cuddy, which seemed to be the most emotionally charged point for House. "Dr. House, would you humor me and please get down off this wall?"

House opened his eyes and looked at him. "I'm not going to jump," he said in exasperation.

"I know, but I'm afraid with any more spasms like that, you might just fall off anyway." Jensen hesitated, then continued in an absolutely even tone. "As you noted yourself, your balance is off. I wonder if part of your mind almost expects you to fall. Not specifically off the roof, but in general, physically and relationally. And I think it's quite possible that you subconsciously caused yourself injury the other day to provide an innocent excuse to Dr. Cuddy for your leg to be hurting more. If you subconsciously decide that you need to hurt more as we discuss things, you are in a very precarious position at the moment." House sighed. "Please," Jensen asked.

Slowly, House shifted his legs over and dropped down, landing on the left and still having the right leg try to fold up anyway. Jensen grabbed his elbow to steady him. House slowly eased himself down to sit on the rooftop, his left shoulder against the barrier wall he had just been on top of, and Jensen sat down next to him on the other side. "Thank you," Jensen said, giving a mental sigh of relief.

House was rubbing at his leg again, though less frantically. He looked over at Jensen. "You think I _wanted_ to hurt myself?"

"No, actually. If I thought you were an acute danger to yourself or others, I'd have to act, but I don't believe you are. I just think your mind is playing tricks on you, and I don't think you fully realize why yet. You've clearly been hiding not only Dr. Cuddy's pregnancy from her but even the extent of your doubts from yourself. Doubts about your adequacy as a father. You feel crippled in that aspect, far beyond physically, and I think that part of the reason your leg has been hurting so much, part of the reason you are falling or nearly falling, is to translate those feelings of inadequacy into physical terms. You haven't been letting yourself express them any other way, not even in the privacy of your own mind. They needed to find some outlet."

House sighed. "IF she keeps the baby, from my point of view, I'm looking forward to this. At least I thought I was."

"Exactly. You even said last session that you were in a great mood, which was obviously the truth, or at least as much of it as you were admitting to yourself. You used to openly admit, although only to yourself and occasionally to me, that the idea of being a father terrified you. Since you realized Dr. Cuddy's pregnancy, I don't think you're letting yourself admit that. Considering your last session in retrospect, and realizing now that you knew about the pregnancy then, I'm nearly positive that you aren't letting yourself admit that. You're attempting to repress your fears, and it isn't going to work."

House was looking both analytical and stubborn, but the stubbornness was still predominant. Jensen gave a mental sigh and kicked on, trying for a slight change of subject to approach it from a different direction. "In the last two months, you have become close to Rachel and realized that you can be a father figure to her. You've discovered that you actually are quite good with children. You've enjoyed being in her life. Haven't you?"

No hesitation there. "She's a neat kid," House stated. "She has personality, even so little."

"So you do feel good about Rachel. But you also, as you said yourself, are actively trying to block anything at the moment that might stress out Dr. Cuddy. I think in response to that decision, your conscious mind has selectively grabbed onto your new comfort with children and enjoyment of Rachel and extended that to the baby, and you've pushed all of your doubts back down into your subconscious, hiding them from yourself as well as hiding them from her. Unfortunately, the fact that you've pushed those away doesn't mean they aren't there and doesn't mean they aren't affecting you." Jensen let his eyes rest on the splinted ankle.

House shook his head. "I _am_ looking forward to it, damn it. I'm not making that up."

"I know. The anticipation is real. But so are the doubts. Let yourself admit them, if not to Dr. Cuddy, at least to yourself. Allow yourself to have mixed emotions. Bottling such strong feelings up is bound to lead to the pressure being released in some other way, whether through nightmares of your father or increased pain or decreased balance. Actually, very many potential parents, with far less valid reasons than you have, doubt their ability with their coming children. And many of those then feel guilty for having any thoughts other than pure anticipation. It's quite common. Given your past, I'd say it's almost inevitable. But you can't acknowledge half of your feelings and not the other half. You've got to face all of them."

House smiled suddenly, though without any real humor behind it. "Boy, this is ironic. I spend years bottling up everything, and now, you're saying that when I start trying to hide something new, I just can't deal with it anymore."

"That's good, actually. It's progress. You have discovered the last few months how much it helps to talk about things, to let them be expressed."

House stared at his hands. "I _can't _tell her," he insisted. "I can't talk to her about this. When it fails, it's not going to be my fault."

"_When_ it fails?" Jensen repeated. "That isn't automatically going to happen. And I don't think you really believe that it wouldn't be your fault. Regarding failure, are you speaking about her physically carrying the pregnancy, or about you being a good father to your own child?"

"About her, damn it." Jensen waited silently, and House sighed. "Rachel is like a daughter to me already. Why would . . ." He trailed off.

"Precisely. You love her as your child. Why would your biological child be different? All of us make mistakes with our children, but basically, either you are a good father or a bad one, and Rachel has already proven which it is." House was looking at his hands. Jensen pushed on a little; he had to get House to admit this point and move it from his subconscious mind into his conscious one to start making any progress in resolving his current pain, physical and emotional. "But you do question it, in spite of the evidence of the last months with Rachel. Can you honestly tell me that you have no remaining doubts about your future performance as a father?"

There was silence for a minute. "She's still young," House noted softly. "Lots of time left for me to blow it." He abruptly tightened up again, anger flaring up in his eyes. "DAMN him. Even when I'm trying to get help, he still finds ways to screw my life up. Is it EVER going to end?"

"Yes," Jensen said absolutely. House looked over at him, startled. "You won't forget it, like you don't forget roads that are behind you, but his influence will progressively decrease. You will get past this. It already is tremendously less. You now have mixed feelings about being a parent, positive along with negative. Only two months ago, you never would have seen the positive aspect at all." House considered that. "But one thing you must realize, Dr. House. If Dr. Cuddy miscarries again, it will be a medical tragedy. It will not be proof that you could never be a good father to your own child, or a good partner to her. If it happens, it won't be your fault."

"Stress can affect people physically," House said doggedly. "That's a medical fact."

"Yes, it is," Jensen said, looking firmly at House's leg. "And once again, like a few months ago, you are ignoring the physical impact of your decisions for others on yourself. You're risking your own health in your extreme attempts to keep everything from her. That not only impacts you, but it will stress her more. You cannot continue to hide all of this; you really need to talk to somebody. Today, if possible. You do have a breaking point, Dr. House. Remember that. Let's try not to find it by running into it this time."

House shook his head. "I . . .can't. I can't tell her." Jensen waited. "Maybe after she knows, after she's past the danger period, we could talk some."

Jensen knew he wasn't going to get any further on that today. House was shutting down again. "Think about it. Watch her and ask yourself if she isn't worrying more for knowing you're keeping something from her. But talk to Dr. Wilson, at least. You said he knew about the pregnancy. Talk to somebody. You can't continue bottling it all up; you've already actually hurt yourself. You need a friend right now, not just a psychiatrist. And you have one available. Make use of him."

House considered, and at that moment, his cell phone rang. He whipped it out, and Jensen knew instantly from his expression that it was Cuddy. House's face was a road map of love, guilt, doubt, and then fierce stubbornness in rapid succession. That brief montage confirmed to the psychiatrist exactly how much private stress House was under at the moment. No wonder it was demanding physical outlet, with him absolutely locked down on expressing it any other way. Not that any of that showed in his voice. "Hi."

"Hi. Where are you? Just went by your office, and you weren't there."

"Oh, Jensen and I took a little walk to stretch our legs. I was just giving him a status update." He didn't specify on whom.

"How is Cathy?"

"She's doing better all the time. She's going to be fine."

He heard her sigh of relief. "That's wonderful. You be careful, though. You don't need to be stretching your legs too much at the moment. You have a badly sprained ankle, and your balance is still shakier than I'd like it on those crutches."

"I'm _fine_," he insisted. "I'm not going to fall."

"You already fell," she pointed out.

"Again. I'm not going to fall again." He changed the subject. "I was just about done updating Jensen on things anyway. What say we do lunch in a little while? We could go out somewhere close."

"I might be able to chisel out an hour from my schedule." He heard papers flipping and could clearly see her at her desk, the busy administrator at work. "Come down to my office when you finish updating Jensen, and we'll see."

"Okay. See you in a little while." He snapped the phone shut and looked up to meet Jensen's steady gaze. "_What?_"

Jensen gave a mental sigh. "_Talk_ to somebody, Dr. House. Things aren't going to get better until you do. I really think you need to talk to Dr. Cuddy, but at least talk to Dr. Wilson about some of what you're feeling. He will keep your secret and probably would appreciate the opportunity, and it will help you. Can you promise me that?"

House hesitated. "Okay, I'll talk to Wilson. After lunch, though. Got to get back downstairs now before she gets worried." He shifted and then froze, clearly starting to consider the logistics of getting up from the ground without putting any pressure on his right leg. Jensen stood and extended a hand. House debated silently, then took it, and Jensen pulled him up, then gathered the crutches and handed them to him as House propped himself against the wall. Jensen's own cell phone rang at that moment, and he answered. It was Melissa, just checking in.

"Go on," House told him after he hung up. "I'll just slow you down. Get back to your family."

"I'm sticking with you as far as the bottom of the stairs," Jensen insisted, his tone pleasant as ever but unyielding. Watching House climb them in the first place had been nerve-wracking. Knowing now that his shaky balance had not only physical but also mental causes made Jensen even more worried about a fall, especially given the emotionally charged session they'd just had. No way was he letting House descend alone right after this conversation.

House rolled his eyes and limped off toward the door. Jensen did indeed stay right next to him during the painful progress down the flight of stairs. Once they were back in the main hospital halls, Jensen left him, and House took a minute sitting on a bench to recover from the stairs, then hobbled slowly to the elevator. Talk to somebody. This had to be one of heaven's jokes. He, Gregory House, loner extraordinaire, had psyched himself into trashing his own ankle just because what he really needed was to talk to somebody. He could hear Wilson laughing in his mind; he'd never live this down. His cell phone rang again at that point, and he pulled it out, not even looking at caller ID, just assuming it was Cuddy again. "I'm on my way, almost to the elevator," he answered as he stabbed the button.

Silence, a sniffling silence, and then a voice. "Greg? Is this Dr. Greg House?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"It's Patsy Wilkerson. I live in Lexington next door to your mother. Greg, it's your mother."

He froze, not noticing the opening elevator doors. "Is she ill? Hurt?"

"She was in an accident this morning. She was hit by a car." Silence again, during which he could swear he heard his own heartbeat counting the seconds. "Right . . . right in front of me. I'm not a doctor, but . . . it looked really bad. You'd better come."


	19. Chapter 19

Cuddy was deep in paperwork at her desk when she heard the door open and his awkward, even more audible than usual steps. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd found a lunch date you liked better instead," she said jokingly. He didn't reply, and she looked up from her work, then dropped her pencil and was around the desk in two seconds flat. "Greg, what's wrong?" Her hand reached out, worriedly tracing the side of his face, trying to reach in to soothe whatever pain was currently blazing in that mind of his.

He looked absolutely in shock, his blue eyes stunned, his body leaning even more on the crutches, but his voice when he spoke was almost conversational, routine. "I need a few personal days off."

"For what? What's wrong?"

Her hands were on his arms now, pure concern and compassion in her voice and eyes. He wanted to curl up against her and just close his eyes, breathe in her presence, and wish the world away for a while, but he knew it wouldn't work, not for him any more than for Cathy. Besides, he had to be the strong one here. He couldn't lean on Cuddy, not with their child always to be considered at the moment. Still, he felt blindsided by this latest blow. He couldn't lose his mother just when they had finally started to develop a real, honest relationship for the first time in his life. The world couldn't be that cruel, could it? The cascading river of pain in his leg provided the answer. "Something's . . . come up. I'll be fine; I just need a few personal days."

"House." They used first and last names intermixed in private, last ones almost exclusively at work, but the bite underneath the tone there was a clear warning. She wasn't going to accept this without details. Damn.

"It's . . . important. I'll be okay. I'll call you."

Cuddy spun around and marched back to her desk, slamming the current file shut and picking up her purse. "Like hell you will. You won't have to, because I'm going to BE THERE. I could use a few personal days myself. From the minute you leave this office, I'm on you like glue, and you can't beat me in a race." She grabbed her jacket, shrugged it on, and turned defiantly to face him with the light of battle in her eyes. "Now, where are we going?"

House sighed. "I don't . . ." He retreated a step backwards, or tried to. His leg chose that moment to send up another pain flare, exploding clear from ankle to thigh, and he would have toppled over if Cuddy hadn't caught him.

"Sit," she said sharply, steering him toward the couch. "You don't what? If you were going to say you don't want me with you, too bad, and if you were going to say you don't need me, that viewpoint is even more ridiculous than it was 2 minutes ago. You're having enough trouble just walking right now anyway, and you look like you're in shock. No way am I letting you just disappear when you're in this condition. In fact, I think it's about time for your annual hospital physical. Think I'll just order it right now, before we leave." She started back toward the phone.

House leaned his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see her stress levels rising, his hands rubbing his thigh. Trapped again. He couldn't stress Cuddy, but disappearing without notice would stress her more, although he'd very briefly considered just applying for a few personal days after the fact and by phone. He had hoped she would just accept an undefined personal situation, although he should have known better. "I'm okay," he insisted, the tightness of his voice denying it. "I just had some bad news on a phone call. I need to go deal with it for a few days. That's all; you don't have to worry. It'll be okay."

His eyes were still closed, but he heard her drop the phone and sit back down next to him, felt her hands move alongside his on his leg. It felt so good, some of the pain relaxing. She always had the magic touch. "What was the bad news?" she asked softly.

Was there any possible way out of this without revealing something? He ran the differential and came to the single conclusion. "My, um, mother is in the hospital. I need to go down and check on her."

"Oh, Greg, I'm . . ." She caught herself before saying sorry. "What happened? Was it a heart attack?"

"No." He wished he could just sit here, feeling her hands, and not have to answer further.

She heard the thought. "Greg, I'm calling down to the hospitals in Lexington myself in a minute to find out which one. I can spin a story that will get any administrator there to tell me where she is. In fact, it won't BE a story. I'll say I'm worried about my star employee, whose mother is hospitalized, and trying to help him make arrangements, and that is absolutely true. I'm worried sick right now. Whatever is going on with you, I wish you'd let me in."

His eyes opened, and he looked at her, as if assessing how worried sick she really was. He sighed again. "She was hit by a car. Multiple trauma. She's critical."

Cuddy's hands froze on his thigh. "And you weren't going to tell me that?"

"I knew you'd want to come along. You have a hospital to run."

"Screw the hospital. If there's one lesson from this year, with Rachel and then you, it's that there are things that are sometimes more important than work. The hospital will get along without me for a few days." She got up and went back to the desk, pulling up the internet, rapidly typing. "I'll see what the fastest plane tickets to Lexington are."

House cringed. He hadn't even gotten mentally past getting away from Cuddy to decide his method of travel. He hated flying, hated the packed quarters, jostling people, and hours of inactivity for his leg without breaks. On the other hand, planes were undoubtedly faster, and at the moment, he quite probably wasn't safe to drive with his right leg this messed up. Time was crucial, anyway. He had called the hospital after talking with Patsy. She was right; it was bad. "What about Rachel?" he asked suddenly.

She debated. "Probably best to leave her here. I'll call the nanny. A hospital for a few days is no place to be stuck with a healthy child." She made a few more clicks. "Okay, we're booked. Leaving from Newark in three and a half hours, and I got us first class. It will be a little easier for you. Let me call the nanny, then talk to my assistant for a minute, and we're out of here. We can swing by the house to pack a quick suitcase. How are you on meds for several days? Do we need to hit the pharmacy on the way out?"

"I'm sorry," House said, watching her administratively scheduled day shatter around her.

She looked up quickly from the phone, absolutely nailing him with her eyes. "If you ever say that to me again, I swear I'll add back your clinic hours. You are NOT an inconvenience, and it's hardly your fault your mother was in an accident. And even at the moment, you aren't inadequate and helpless. I WANT to go with you, to be there for you. That's what people in a relationship do."

He rubbed at his leg. No possible way to recork this bottle. It looked like he was stuck with her. But she probably would have been more worried here; at least this way, he could keep an eye on her and try to keep her from stressing too much. Also, even though he was trying to make himself think only of her, part of him selfishly was glad that he wouldn't be alone. "Thanks," he said, yielding.

She finished a quick conversation with the nanny, an even quicker one with her assistant, and in five minutes, she came back over to the couch and helped him upright, holding on until he seemed securely propped on the crutches and feeling another stab of worry at how long it seemed to take him to find his balance. "Let's get going," she said.

"Lead on, commander." She smiled a bit at that and marched determinedly toward the door, stopping to hold it open as he slowly limped through.

In the stresses since, he had completely forgotten about his promise to talk to Wilson after lunch.


	20. Chapter 20

Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Kutner and Foreman were with Cathy that afternoon, with Foreman running through an exam, when Wilson spotted the team and poked his head in the door. "Have you all seen House? Can't find him anywhere. I was going to see if he needed a ride home later; he probably shouldn't be driving with his ankle."

Foreman shook his head. "I've hardly seen him today, actually. In fact, I don't think I've seen him at all, come to think of it. That's odd."

"I haven't seen him since first thing this morning, and he wasn't in the best of moods then," Kutner put in. "I was pushing him to get a real physical exam because of his fall on Saturday; I've been trying not to look for him since then. Thought I'd let him cool off first so maybe he wouldn't fire me. He said then he was going to see you."

Wilson nodded. "He did. He even let me do a real exam. He's okay, besides the ankle. He did quite a job on it, tore a ligament, but nothing else wrong." He looked at his watch and frowned. House was an artist at disappearing, but Wilson was still somewhat worried. He'd reviewed that MRI several times so far.

Kutner tilted his head and looked at the oncologist dubiously, clearly questioning the thoroughness of the exam, but then he let it go. "Did you check the lounge? The roof . . . no, scratch the roof. He probably couldn't make the stairs on crutches."

Jensen tried to make his comment seem casual. "He was in here in mid morning, checking on Cathy. He hasn't been through since." He looked over at Wilson, eyes asking a question he didn't want to ask outright in front of the others, and Wilson answered.

"I haven't seen him since I did the MRI on his leg this morning." He raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering why that particular information mattered to Jensen.

Jensen stood. "I think I'm going to go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee. Do you want some, Melissa?"

"Yes, thanks, Michael. You know how I like it."

Jensen headed out of the room, hearing Wilson say behind him, "Well, if you happen to run into him, tell him I'm looking for him." Jensen paused at the elevator, and Wilson joined him fairly quickly.

"What's up?" the oncologist asked softly.

The doors slid open, revealing a thankfully empty elevator, and the two entered. "I can't tell you," Jensen replied. "I do wish we knew where he was, though."

Wilson pulled out his cell phone and dialed, then frowned. "He's not answering. It went to voice mail. Let's go to Cuddy's office; she might know." He was starting to get more worried himself. It took a good bit to get Jensen rattled, and if _he _was worried about House today . . .

Jensen nodded. "He mentioned something this morning about lunch with her."

The two headed that direction when the elevator opened, but the office was dark and empty. "Dr. Cuddy had to leave early," the secretary stated. "She's going to be taking a few personal days. Family emergency, she said."

Wilson and Jensen looked at each other. "Thank you," Wilson replied courteously, and the two quickly retreated out of her hearing. Wilson pulled out his cell phone to try another number. "Cuddy? Is something going on?"

Her voice was calm though concerned. "House got a call that his mother was in an MVA this morning; she's critical, and the prognosis doesn't look good. We're on our way to Lexington. Our flight will be boarding any minute; I can't talk long."

Jensen noted Wilson's entire expression change to shocked disbelief. "You're kidding! I mean, no, of course you're not kidding. I mean. . . wow. Is he okay?"

"He's . . . numb. In shock, I think. I'm glad I'll be able to be there for him." Her voice dropped volume suddenly. "He's coming back from the bathroom now, and they're calling our flight. I've got to go. I'll try to keep you updated." She clicked end before Wilson could say anything further.

"Damn." The oncologist put his cell phone back up. "House's mother was in an MVA this morning and might not make it. House and Cuddy are flying to Lexington to be with her. Well, House is going to be with her; Cuddy is obviously going along for him."

Jensen felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. To have House as knotted up and on edge as he had been this morning, then immediately leaving town to deal with a new crisis with the one person he was most resistant to opening up to at the moment as his sole constant companion was not a good situation. Not unless House gave up his stubborn protector instincts, that was, but Jensen doubted he would yield that point easily. Even getting him to agree to talk to Wilson - which he'd obviously been sidetracked from - had been like pulling teeth. No, Cuddy's presence right now would just worry House more for her, and meanwhile, he had been put under even more pressure with no allowed outlet for it. Jensen sighed.

"What is it?" Worried brown eyes bored into him. "Do you know something I don't here?"

Jensen turned abruptly, starting for the cafeteria and cursing medical confidentiality. "I would suggest you keep trying to call your friend, Dr. Wilson. Leave him a message and let him know you're there for him. Keep leaving him messages."

Wilson sighed. "Did he . . . tell you something about Cuddy? Something he might have told me too?"

"You know I can't answer that."

"I think you just did. And yes, I can see some difficulties there, given his current bullheadedness. Still, he will need physical help right now with his ankle, and I'd think it was a good thing he wasn't alone in this. Maybe it will even help him turn to her. But there's more going on here than I know, isn't there?"

"I can't answer that," Jensen repeated. Their eyes met in mutual concern.

"I really did get to examine him thoroughly this morning, at least. He did quite a job on his ankle, but there didn't seem to be anything else new wrong. Not medically, anyway. He was just worried about her." Jensen didn't say anything, and Wilson sent a few curses toward confidentiality himself. "I'll call him," Wilson promised. His pager went off right then, and he glanced at it. "I'll leave him a message from the elevator. Cuddy said they were about to board; they'll be out of reach on the flight for a while." Wilson headed for the elevator at a worried trot.

Jensen went on to the cafeteria, and as he stood in line, he pulled out his own cell phone. House absolutely had to be the one to initiate therapeutic contact, but Jensen bent the House rules enough for one short text message.

_Just heard about your mother. Call anytime if you need to talk._

He only hoped House would take either him or Wilson up on it before he pushed himself into a breakdown.


	21. Chapter 21

Cuddy kept stealing surreptitious glances at House as the plane hurtled through the sky toward the new crisis. Not that she really had to be surreptitious. He was staring out the window, obviously lost in thought, and he'd barely said anything to her since they had left her office. He gave perfectly pleasant responses to questions, went where he was told, ate the lunch she purchased at a drive-in on the way to Newark without complaint, but his mind and personality seemed completely elsewhere. In Lexington, no doubt. He hadn't made a single snide remark during the entire process of security check and boarding.

She knew that he and his mother had been talking at least weekly since Blythe had left Princeton. Cuddy had stayed at a distance on that one ("Afraid of what you'd say to her if you got started," Wilson had commented once, fairly accurately), but she had followed the situation with interest and with regular and thorough updates from House. Blythe had started therapy herself, and it apparently was doing her a world of good. She was less demanding, less naive in her expectations, and she and her son actually had grown closer the last several weeks than they ever had been. House had even told Cuddy once that in a way, he was glad now that Wilson had filled Blythe in, even though he still would have picked different methods and wished he had been forewarned. But good had come out of it. For the first time, Blythe knew all the facts even if not yet all the specific details, and House no longer had to protect her.

To protect her. Cuddy gritted her teeth. She still could not believe that John House had bought his son's silence for all those extended years by the threat of killing his mother in front of him if he revealed the abuse. The message had been drilled deeply into House, lasting far into adulthood, the habit of silence finally even outliving John House himself. Her heart broke all over again thinking about the frightened, lost little boy who truly had been raised to feel alone in the world, in spite of surface appearances of a family. Family to him was almost defined as pain, suffering, and deception. No wonder he had always held people away.

He was letting her in these days, though, and he was improving steadily with Jensen's help. She never tired of watching him with Rachel. Still, she sensed that something had been bothering him the last few days, before his ankle, before Blythe. She was worried about him. Physically, too, he did not seem quite right lately. He was normally the most graceful cripple she had ever seen, but his entire balance had been slightly off.

Right now, even as his thoughts were elsewhere, his hand was resting on his leg, rubbing it slightly. She knew the plane trip, even in first class, would do him no favors. At least they weren't in economy and had more leg room. She was sitting on his right, providing a buffer to protect his leg from the aisle traffic, and she reached out suddenly and put her hands on his thigh. It didn't seem to be cramping up at the moment, but it was clearly hurting him. She massaged it gently, and for the first time in the last hour, he looked away from the window to his left and turned his eyes toward her. They still looked stunned - and shielded.

"You okay?" she said softly.

"Fine. Planes aren't the most comfortable method of travel ever invented."

She worked gently on his leg, watching some of the lines of pain - but certainly not all - disappear from his face. She took her hands away for a minute and picked up her purse from under her seat, pushing it forward and raising his splinted right ankle gingerly to place the purse as a prop underneath it. It wasn't as good as truly elevating it, but it might help some. She fussed over placing that for a minute, then straightened back up. "Does that help any, Greg?"

"Yes," he replied.

She returned to resting her hands on his thigh, making herself a human heating pad. "I know you've got a lot to deal with right now, but I really do think it might be a good idea to have your annual physical when we get back to Princeton. I'm worried about you lately. You seem off."

He looked at her. What was that look behind his eyes? Normally, his eyes were a dead giveaway, the one thing he couldn't totally control, but lately, she felt like she was missing a piece of the puzzle. She simply wasn't reading him. He finished whatever internal differential he was running and then said, "Actually, I had a full exam from Wilson this morning. MRI and everything. Just to make sure there was nothing wrong with the leg besides the ankle at the moment."

She felt a surge of relief. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Ask him yourself. He took forever running that scan, looking for anything. I didn't think he'd find anything new, just wanted to rule it out to cover all possibilities."

"So last week really was the weather bothering your leg?"

"Apparently. Of course, the ankle is affecting everything now. You don't have to worry about the leg. Other than a badly sprained ankle, there is nothing new wrong with it. Ask Wilson. Look up the scan yourself."

She smiled at him. "Thank you. You don't know how relieved that makes me."

He looked back toward the window. "If I really thought there was a new major physical problem with the leg, like a clot or something, I'd take myself to the ER. Like I said, today was just for reassurance. I didn't think the MRI would show anything."

"Still, thank you for getting it." She hesitated. "But please try to move a little more slowly on turns and such, especially now with the crutches. Your body can't keep up with your mind at times. And that's not just because of your leg; _my_ body can't keep up with your mind, either."

He turned and gave his first real smile that she had seen that day. "Your body has plenty going for it. Don't feel bad."

She smiled back, partly in relief at the flicker of usual House there. He met her eyes for a minute - then turned away again, looking out the window. She kept both hands on his leg, trying to provide some connection, but once again, even through the relief of learning he really had been checked out, she felt left behind, his mind miles out in front on whatever road of the moment. She sensed he didn't want to talk about his mother. In fact, she sensed that he didn't really want to talk at all. Still, she was glad she was with him on this trip. Having some support would help, and part of her still felt like it was a good idea to keep an eye on him.

(H/C)

Cuddy insisted on picking up a quick dinner at a small diner after they landed, knowing that first of all, House was due for meds anyway and especially needed them after the trip, and second, once he got to the hospital, she would be doing well to drag him out of there at all tonight. He didn't resist the meal, just ate with the same distracted compliance he'd shown with her all day since leaving Princeton, but he astonished her as they finished. "We might call around and book a hotel room at the nearest hotel to the hospital, too. It would be nice to have somewhere to come back to and rest later, get away from the medical environment."

She stared, then reached across to lightly brush his forehead, checking for a temperature. "YOU are suggesting we might want to get away from the medical environment to come back and rest? Voluntarily? With your mother critical?" Hospitals were his natural habitat, even with his mother the patient. She had been building ammunition for a fight later to get him to leave and abruptly found herself left alone on the front lines and discovering that the war she'd prepared to wage didn't exist.

He looked at her and simply nodded. "You look tired," he said.

"Would you rather get a hotel room than stay at your mother's place?" She regretted the question instantly as she saw the visible shudder run through his body. To him, it wasn't his mother's place. His father's personality would still fill the home to which he and Blythe had retired, even with his actual presence long gone. The fact that House himself hadn't lived there wouldn't matter. He had been such a nomad through childhood; home had been defined by the people, not any one building. "I apologize. Of course you don't want to stay there."

"Hotel room is closer anyway," he said, trying to sound logical. "Easier to come and go to the hospital."

That was true, but something about the way he said it rang oddly. She studied him more closely, and he ducked away visually, avoiding her gaze, reaching for his crutches beside his chair instead. "Wait a minute, House. You weren't thinking about slipping back out to the hospital after I was asleep, were you?"

"We need to get going," he scrambled desperately, hauling himself up onto the crutches, moving a bit too suddenly and wavering for a second. Pain stabbed up his leg, and he gritted his teeth. Cuddy jumped up from her own chair and quickly grabbed an elbow to steady him.

"You listen to me, Gregory House. Don't you dare try to lose me in this. I'm going through it WITH you. Every step."

"You'll need to rest at some point."

"So will you, and you're the one who's hurt. You are NOT going to spend all night at that hospital tonight, even in stages, unless Blythe's condition is so unstable it really merits it. And if it does, then I'll be there with you all night. And if it doesn't, we'll give the hospital our cell phone numbers, and you are going back with me to a hotel room and getting off that ankle for several hours."

He sighed and started to awkwardly limp toward the door. She quickly paid their bill, then followed him to the parking lot where their rental car waited in the handicapped spot - House always carried a portable tag in his wallet. He was already getting in the passenger's seat when she caught up with him. She went around to the driver's side and slammed the door with more force than required, and he looked over at her, startled. He'd already been drifting off into deep thought again. "Greg, promise me that you won't try to ditch me in this. Not even temporarily." He hesitated. "PROMISE me. I won't sleep at all wondering if you're plotting sneaking out."

His eyes met hers and ran one of those silent differentials again. "I promise," he said softly. "Let's get to the hospital."

Having won her point, she turned her attention to driving in the unfamiliar city. House was silent most of the trip, either sulking or just distracted, she thought, but when she parked at the hospital and turned to him, she could see that he was sweating, his entire posture tight and pained. "Greg? What's wrong? Is your leg hurting? Cramping up again?"

"Just . . . a little." One hand crept toward it, and she realized that up to that point, he hadn't even been trying to massage it out himself. He had been sitting totally still, almost unnaturally still, the whole trip, not even doing what he could have done to help. What the hell? "It's okay," he insisted.

"You should have said something."

"Stopping would have just slowed us down," he said. He opened the car door, started to lift his leg out, and was unable to suppress a whimper of pure pain that time, although he obviously tried.

Cuddy was around the front of the car in a flash, bending over by his side, her hands on his leg. "Sit still for a minute," she ordered. "You can't walk like this." The leg was indeed in a full spasm, and she worked on the muscle for several minutes, slowly working the knot out. He sat back and closed his eyes. Finally, she felt him start to relax. "Is that better?"

He nodded and opened his eyes again. "I'm okay," he repeated. "The plane trip . . ."

It was certainly a reasonable excuse. So why did she feel like it was only an excuse? "You did say your leg was checked out thoroughly, right?"

"I swear. X-rays and workup on the ankle Saturday from Kutner, who is a sports medicine specialist, you know. Exam and MRI this morning for the entire leg by Wilson. It's a bad sprain, nothing else. Ask Wilson; he'll verify it." She dropped the subject, although she did make a mental note to do just that.

Slowly this time, he levered himself up out of the car onto his crutches, accepting her support. Together they headed into the hospital.


	22. Chapter 22

House felt like he was suffocating.

The whole flight, his mind had been racing full speed on two different tracks, one worrying about his mother and the other worrying about trying to avoid stressing Cuddy. He'd slipped up while they were eating, though, or she'd been too intuitive, reading his thoughts. He'd been forced to promise that he wouldn't try to sneak back out at night just to keep her from getting too anxious, but right after that promise, his leg had cramped up badly, once again reacting physically to his worries about Cuddy and the baby. He sat silently in the car as she drove to the hospital, desperately trying to make no sound, to avoid drawing her attention and concern. For once, he was grateful for the skill instilled into him so harshly by his father to bear pain in silence. Maybe it would settle down before they got to the hospital. To give it a boost in that direction, he lectured himself for the duration of the trip. _Okay, leg, now listen. New ground rules. There is NOTHING wrong, understand? I even have medical proof. The medical facts state this isn't real, so just go away. You will not worry Cuddy. I will not worry Cuddy. Bad enough that she's here; I've got to keep her from stressing too much. So just shut up, leg, because I'm not paying attention to you any longer. I have more important things to deal with than some figment of my own imagination._

Unfortunately, his leg wanted to make it a debate instead of submitting meekly to the lecture, and his teeth had actually been starting to hurt from clenching them by the time Cuddy pulled up at the hospital. Then, of course, she had noticed something was wrong anyway. Damn it, he wasn't going to let her get stressed out over him, particularly over something that didn't in fact exist. There was nothing new wrong with his leg. Period. End of discussion.

Except for the ankle. That was a legitimate injury. House made a mental note to himself to take Wilson's advice and move extremely carefully on the crutches. One bad fall was enough. He wasn't going to let his mind trick him into going down again and stressing her out even more. Slowly, very slowly, he limped into the hospital. Cuddy was by his side. Part of him was grateful; part of him wanted her back in Princeton and away from the current crisis.

The receptionist in the hospital lobby told them that Blythe was in the ICU and provided directions, and they headed that way. In the elevator, Cuddy reached out to put a hand on House's arm, silently offering support. She could feel the tension in him, the unfamiliarity and helplessness of being stuck on the other side, of being family instead of physician for once. Unfortunately, polytrauma from an MVA did not offer much scope for diagnostics. She was sure he would go over Blythe's injuries, but quite probably, there was nothing he could suggest to help.

The elevator opened, and he carefully set his balance and then limped out. The ICU was just ahead on the left, a constant focus of activity like in any hospital, and a doctor was standing at the nurse's station jotting down orders in a file. He looked up at their audible approach, then took a second look. "Dr. House?" House nodded. "I'm Dr. Gallagher. I'm the surgeon on your mother's case. I've heard of you; just wish we could have met under better circumstances. Your mother is right over there."

"How is she?" House asked, cutting to the central subject.

Gallagher laid it out without softening it, medical courtesy to a fellow doctor. From what he'd heard of House, he wouldn't appreciate empty reassurance anyway. "She has a severe head injury. Fractured skull, and there was an intracerebral hemorrhage with shift. We did a craniotomy, drained the hemorrhage, and fixed the bleeding artery. Multiple rib fractures on the left, pulmonary contusion on the left, and her left arm is broken. She is in a coma, GCS of 3. Pressure had built up significantly before we got it relieved."

Cuddy flinched, hearing the unspoken thought, as did House. There was a possibility of brain damage, and they wouldn't know until Blythe woke up. Right now, they were simply waiting.

"So the car hit her on the left?" House asked.

"Yes. She also has abrasions down the right side where she landed. She was thrown about 20 feet." House flinched and then wobbled slightly as the motion knocked his own balance off, and Cuddy gripped his arm to steady him.

"Greg, you ought to sit down. Let's go see her." Gallagher looked at her inquiringly, and she filled in the blank. "I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy, dean of medicine at Princeton Plainsboro."

And clearly a lot more, he concluded. "Good to meet you," he said politely. House had already started off toward Blythe's room, and Gallagher dropped back to walk beside Cuddy and lowered his voice. "Is Dr. House all right? I knew he had a bad leg, but I didn't realize it was still this acute." He'd drawn his own conclusions from watching House move.

Cuddy shook her head. "It's not usually this bad. He fell on Saturday and sprained his ankle, and it's giving him fits since then. The plane didn't help much. He'll be okay; he just needs to get his foot elevated." She hoped.

Gallagher frowned slightly, studying House. More there than just the ankle and more than a chronic disability; he'd bet on it. Still, it was Blythe who was his patient, not her son. Cuddy read the expression on his face and found her concern ramping up again. But if House had had an MRI . . . that probably was true. He'd offered too many verifiable details and absolutely invited her to look up the scans. So what was wrong with him?

"It is an honor to meet him," Gallagher continued. "His reputation precedes him." There was the faintest edge of humor in his voice there, and Cuddy abruptly found herself smiling in response.

"Believe me, he fully deserves his reputation - in all areas."

House was oblivious for once to the conversation going on behind him. He had reached the door to Blythe's room, and he froze, taking in the scene with his medical knowledge making it that much more frightening. Blythe lay motionless and small in the bed, her hair shaved from the surgery, her head swathed in bandages but with drains and pressure monitors still working their way out through the gauze barrier. Her ribs were wrapped, her left arm in a cast. The head of the bed was elevated, both to aid breathing and to help decrease intracranial pressure. Angry red abrasions were visible down her right arm and the right side of her face. She had an entire forest of monitors attached, including an arterial line placed for monitoring of blood gases. She looked, in short, exactly like what she was - a critically injured patient.

Cuddy came up behind him again, her hand rubbing small circles on his back, and House regained the ability of motion and limped on into the room. He stopped by the bed, propped himself, and reached out a hand awkwardly to touch her arm. "Mom . . ."

Blythe didn't react, but the woman sitting on the other side of the bed did. House hadn't even noticed her until she spoke. "Greg?"

"Are you the neighbor?" he asked.

"Yes." Patsy stood up and started to reach across the bed to shake hands, then paused halfway as she noticed the crutches. "I didn't realize you were hurt yourself."

"Just sprained my ankle." He locked his hands back on the crutch handles, though, careful to keep himself upright, aware suddenly of Cuddy next to him. "You said you were there?" Patsy nodded. "What happened?"

"We were doing errands together this morning, then going to have lunch later. I'd gone into the bank, and Blythe said she had to run across the street to the post office."

Tension immediately fired through House's body. "She was going to the _post office_?" Patsy nodded, confused.

Cuddy felt confused herself. "Why does that matter, Greg?"

His mind was replaying the last conversation with his mother Friday night, him asking her to mail Oma's ring, her saying she might have to get a box but would get it on its way Monday at the latest. Monday. Today. He shivered.

Cuddy's hands locked onto him. "House, what is it?"

He looked down into her concerned eyes. She was stressing. She didn't know about the ring or his plans anyway, and this was certainly not how he was going to tell her. "Nothing," he said. "I'm just trying to get a picture of the accident." Had he sent his mother to her death with his request?

Her eyes were frankly disbelieving. "House."

He turned back to Patsy. "Go on. So she was crossing the street to the post office?"

"Coming back from it, actually. I'd come out of the bank, and she was coming back across, and then . . ." Patsy hesitated, reliving it. "The car was speeding . . . she was in a crosswalk, but he ran the light . . . he never even stopped." She shuddered. "Blythe just. . . just went flying . . . her head was bleeding, and everything . . . " Patsy trailed off.

House closed his own eyes, picturing it. "She never saw him?"

"No. He was coming so fast . . . she wasn't even looking. She seemed preoccupied . . . but it should have been safe. She had the green light."

Preoccupied with something. Something like maybe mental images of her son's intentions to use the ring she had just sent him. House suddenly felt the walls close in even more. He was smothering under a blanket of failure. He himself had caused his mother's accident. "Greg? _Greg!_" Cuddy's voice reached in and pulled him back to her. He opened his eyes, seeing her concerned ones. "Are you okay?"

She was worried. He couldn't let her be worried. Damn it, this was all too much at the moment, plus worrying about her, too. "I'm . . . fine. I was just picturing it." A jolt of pain shot up his right leg just then, and he flinched and caught himself on the bed rails.

Cuddy gripped his arm tightly, supporting him. "You need to sit down. Now." He yielded to try to keep from worrying her, slowly and carefully limping around the bed to the chair on the other side. Patsy quickly moved out of the way, and Cuddy turned back to Dr. Gallagher. "We need a second chair brought in here, please. He needs to be able to prop his leg up."

"We need one for you, too," House said. "You can't just be standing around yourself."

"I'll have them bring up more chairs," Gallagher replied. "I'll be around, but the nurses will also page me at any time if her condition changes." He turned and exited, and Patsy fluttered helplessly at the side of the bed, unsure whether to stay or go.

"Greg, I am so sorry about this," she said, and House tried not to flinch too much at her words.

Cuddy stepped in instantly to cover the situation. "Thank you for staying with her. You're a good friend."

"_She's_ a good friend," Patsy replied.

House forced his voice to an even tone. "Yes, thank you. Now . . . would you two mind giving me a few minutes alone with her?" Patsy immediately murmured something socially appropriate as she retreated, but Cuddy turned back to him with a stubborn glint in her eyes. "Please. Just a few minutes," House said. "I'm not going to go anywhere. I just . . . want to talk to her alone for a minute."

Cuddy debated, then leaned down and gently picked up his splinted right ankle, slowly and carefully moving it over and propping it up on the edge of Blythe's bed. "I'll check on the extra chairs. And I'll see if I can find a heating pad."

"You might ask what the closest hotel is, too. Get us a room. We'll need it later on."

She nodded. "I'll do that. It could be days before she wakes up. You don't need to spend all night here."

Neither do you, he thought. Even if he had to stay away himself, he'd make sure she slept in a bed tonight. He shot a mental apology to his mother, but Cuddy and the baby had to come first. Blythe would understand, he hoped. Cuddy leaned over to kiss him. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Greg. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine. I just want to talk to her alone a minute, like I said. I'm okay." He carefully kept his voice even, barely a hint of the swirling hurricane of tension within.

She rested one hand on his arm for a moment, then turned and left.

Finally they were alone. Briefly, too briefly. He couldn't let the brakes totally off even now, couldn't lose control, couldn't let Cuddy notice anything when she returned, but at least for the moment, he was alone with his mother. He leaned forward slightly, capturing her fingers. "Mom, I'm here," he said. Tears welled up, and he pushed them back fiercely. "You're in the hospital; you were hit by a car. Please, don't leave me just yet. I still need you. And Mom, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His father had been right all along. Sorry made absolutely no difference.


	23. Chapter 23

Abuse warning applies on this chapter.

(H/C)

_Greg cringed as his father loomed over him. "Now what happens if you ever tell, Greg?" _

_The boy gulped back the lump in his throat. Tears would only lead to greater punishment. _

_In one rapid motion, John House tossed him off the bed. The boy crashed hard against the floor, but through long practice, he was absolutely silent as he fell. John knelt on him, one knee pushing hard against his son's right thigh, pinning him down, as he reached for the right foot. He ripped the sock off and pushed the pajama leg up slightly, wrapping both hands around the bare ankle. "What happens if you tell? Answer me when I ask you a question." _

_"You . . . you'll kill her, sir." _

_"Speak up. I didn't hear you." _

_"I said you'll KILL HER, sir." _

_John casually stroked his son's ankle in a twisted parody of affection. "That's right. That's what happens if you ever tell. And whose fault would it be?" _

_"Mine, sir. It's my fault." Greg was fighting back panic. Pressure against his thigh pinned him to the ground, and he could almost already feel pain pulsing out from his father's hands through the ankle. He was helpless._

_"Right. It would all be your fault." John House laughed, a sick sound that sent chills down Greg's spine. "I wonder if this ankle could be twisted right off." He started applying pressure, and Greg clamped his teeth together. He couldn't make any sounds of pain, ever. It only made things worse. But it was the image of his mother dead, with her death his fault, that hurt him more. "What do you say to me, son, for toughening you up?" _

_The pressure was increasing. Lightning bolts of pain rocketed through his ankle. "Thank you," Greg gritted out between clenched teeth. _

_"What did you say?"_

_"Thank you, sir." _

_John gave a final sharp twist of the ankle, then abruptly released it and got up. "You're pathetic. Don't know why I waste my time with you." He started for the door of the room, but stopped once there and turned to face his son. "Always remember, Greg. If you tell, you will kill her, and it will all be your fault." _

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up abruptly, feeling House next to her in the hotel bed. He wasn't fighting; he was absolutely shrunk back into the mattress, almost as if pinned there, as far down as he could get. Every muscle in his body, not just the leg, was taut and quivering; she could literally feel the tremors sweeping over him. His breathing was ragged, and his body was soaked in sweat. "Greg!" She flipped on the bedside lamp and leaned over him. "Greg, come on, wake up. It's just a nightmare."

His lips moved slightly, but she couldn't hear what he said. Amazing how quiet he could be in nightmares. She leaned over more closely, hands on either side of his face, trying to reach through the darkness and connect with him. His eyes were tightly shut, but there were no tears. She had seen him weep sometimes when he was awake, but in the middle of nightmares, he never cried, or only at the end very rarely as she tried to coax him into believing it was over and her words began to sink in. It was in these moments, seeing him absolutely gripped in terror but eerily quiet, that she realized fully just how repressed he had been in the living nightmare of his childhood. "Greg, come on. It's over, it's okay. You're safe now."

"It's my fault," he muttered. Leaning over with her face nearly next to his as she pulled his head up to her, she heard the barely audible words that time, and she winced and once again wished for five minutes - or even five seconds, plus a gun - alone with John House.

"Greg! Wake up." She heard the sharp intake of his breath and immediately relaxed her hold, knowing what was coming next. He bolted halfway up off the bed, leaping into wakefulness with a nearly convulsive jerk. His eyes snapped open, wildly roaming the room, and both hands grabbed for his leg. Cuddy would try to help with his leg in a moment, but getting him oriented was the first priority. "It's okay," she said softly. "It's over. It's all over." She pulled his head over against her chest again, wrapping him against her, trying to take away the pain. His shoulders shuddered, and she could feel him trying to control himself, trying to steady his breathing, trying not to break totally down. He was trying even harder than usual. It angered her, and not one iota of that showed in her tone. "It's okay. It's over now." His breathing finally evened out, though still too fast. She didn't move, letting him hide in her chest as long as he wanted. Finally, he moved away, and she immediately respected the silent withdrawal and let go. She slipped out of bed and padded around to his side, her hands now going to his leg.

"I'm okay," he insisted. She took one hand off long enough to go to his throat, getting a quick reading on his pulse. It was easily over 100. She didn't deny his statement, maybe any other time, but not just after a nightmare. Let him say he was okay if it made him feel any better.

Her hands went back to his leg, soothing the thigh, massaging the muscle until it was starting to relax. Then she shifted down to his ankle, carefully unfastening the Velcro on the air splint to check the joint beneath, which he had to have jolted waking up like that. The ankle looked angrier than ever, swollen and discolored, practically throbbing before her eyes. "Boy, when you want to twist your ankle, you do a good job of it." She meant it just as a lighthearted remark to try to regain some normality, but he instantly tightened back up with a hiss of indrawn breath, his gaze turning inward. "Greg?" Slowly, he focused back on her. She sighed. "Would it help to talk about it?"

He started to shake his head, but he had hesitated first. Damn it, why did she have to phrase the question like that? She had caught the hesitation, too. "Greg, please, let me share it. Whatever it is."

The outright worry in her eyes stabbed him. He was stressing her. But she was carrying their child, the one thing she had always wanted above all, her own baby. Letting her fully in would multiply the stress and also get her worried physically about herself and not just about him. He couldn't stand the thought of what her eyes would look like after she had lost their child. His father's voice abruptly reached back from the nightmare to replay in his mind. _"You will kill her, and it will all be your fault."_ His breath quickened again, and his entire body shivered.

"Hey." Cuddy leaned over him. "Greg? Come on, stay with me." Slowly decreasing physical symptoms after nightmares were typical. Repeatedly trying to slip back into flashbacks within just minutes of waking up was not. "Greg. It's okay." She climbed back onto the bed carefully, aware of his insulted leg and now unwrapped ankle and the fact that she was now on his bad side, but she thought he needed the physical contact with the present. She pulled him over against her, trying to let the warmth of her body soak into his shivering one. Slowly his breathing slowed again and his eyes focused. "Greg, please talk to me."

He closed his eyes, unable to face the worry in hers any longer, unable to remove the worry no matter what he did, bound and determined not to increase it. "I . . . was dreaming about how he'd threaten Mom. If I ever told. It was my fault."

She stroked his hair. "You know that's not true. But you did protect her. You kept her safe from him all those years. It's not your fault now that she's in the hospital."

On the other hand, what if it was? He kept his eyes tightly closed. "He . . . tried to twist my ankle off."

"Tried to twist it _off?_" That was too strong a reaction, and she felt his slight retreat and reminded herself sharply to keep a better handle on herself. Calm reassurance and simply listening were what reached him most during revelations of the past. Any emotion or shock on the part of the listener only pushed him away back into the horrible aloneness. She forced herself to be matter-of-fact, going analytical. "Maybe that's why you had that dream. Because your ankle was hurting. That and your mother being in danger." The nightmares were back to intermittent these days, but she should have expected his mother's crisis to trigger one.

"Yeah. Probably." He opened his eyes suddenly. "Would . . . never mind."

"What?"

He had been about to ask if she could take a shower or something, give him a few minutes of privacy to call Jensen or Wilson or anybody other than her. But how on earth could he ask her that? She was right here, available, trying to be there for him. He couldn't tell her to leave, not right now. That would hurt her even more.

"What, Greg?"

"Would you mind if we didn't talk any more tonight? I just . . . can't." The last word was a naked plea. "I. . . there's too much else going on right now." Which was the absolute truth, he told himself.

If he wanted distance from the nightmare tonight instead of discussing it, she understood. "Okay." Cuddy stood back up, carefully resplinted his ankle, then moved around to her own side and flipped the light off. She snuggled down against him, pulling him over against her. "It's okay, Greg," she repeated. He was a snuggler more often than anybody at PPTH would have believed, but tonight, he wrapped both arms around her almost fiercely, desperately, and hung on as if he were afraid she'd be torn away from him. He was turned on his good side, his face buried against her, his eyes hidden even in the dark. She simply held him as the early morning hours passed in silence.


	24. Chapter 24

The next morning, as soon as House heard the shower go on, he pulled out his cell phone, dialing almost frantically.

"Hello." Jensen had obviously looked at the caller ID; his voice was pure professionalism, but House caught the aside to Melissa and Cathy. "Excuse me. I need to take this privately." A minute later, there came the sound of steps. "Are you okay?" Jensen asked urgently.

"I . . .no." House took a deep breath, then went on, his voice taut with tension. "We don't have much time. Cuddy's taking a shower. Couple of new things. First, it's my fault."

He heard Jensen sigh softly, unable to quite suppress it. "What specifically?"

"Mom's accident."

"How exactly did you arrive at that?"

"I talked to her last Friday night, before everything went haywire. I asked her to mail me my grandmother's wedding ring." Jensen's silence absorbed the full significance of that. "She was hit by a car just outside of the post office."

Jensen waited a few seconds to make sure House was finished for the moment, then dove straight in in light of the time constraints. "How's Dr. Cuddy?" he asked, in an apparent change of subject.

House followed him readily enough. Almost always, as Jensen knew, he was willing to talk about Dr. Cuddy, no matter what subject they had previously been on. "She's . . . worried, but she's really doing pretty well. Logistical things, like stage-managing the trip down yesterday, she really does well."

"So far she hasn't miscarried the child?"

House hoped Jensen had found a very private corner of PPTH but figured he could trust him for that. "Not so far," he replied.

"If she does, will it be her fault?"

"_What?_ No, of course not."

"You mean something bad can occur with immediate connections to someone and still have it not be that person's fault?"

House sighed. "I fell straight into that one, didn't I?"

"You're not quite at your best this morning, definitely. I usually have a harder time than that tricking you in conversation. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some. I . . . had a nightmare. One of the ones where my father was reminding me what would happen to Mom if I ever told, and how it would all be my fault. I know, probably all sorts of reasons you could come up with why I had that one right now. He tried to twist my ankle off, too, so the ankle hurting ties into it. And he was kneeling on my leg to hold me down."

"Did Dr. Cuddy wake you up?"

"Yes. She. . . she was great, really. She always is under pressure."

"You mean she deals with pressure well?" House was silent, but Jensen knew the point wasn't lost. "After she had comforted you, did you get back to sleep?"

"She did eventually. I didn't." He hadn't wanted to risk another and waking her up again.

"You might double the dose back up tonight on the sleeping pills, just temporarily. You must not let yourself have additional physical stress added from lack of sleep. You're already under far too much pressure at the moment."

"I can't do that. Not with Mom critical."

"How is she?"

"Very badly injured. She's in a coma, and it could go either way at this point. But those pills work too well on me. The full dose knocks me out. If they need me in the middle of the night . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Then try to catch a nap today if you can. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Are you eating regular meals?"

A ripple of humor went through House's voice. "Are you kidding? With my own personal drill sergeant following me 24/7? Yes, I'm eating, and I'm taking all the meds on schedule."

"What about the pain levels?"

House sighed. "It's hurting like hell," he admitted. "And the worst spikes are definitely tied to thinking about her and the baby."

"Did you tell Dr. Cuddy the content of your nightmare last night?"

"Cliff's Notes version."

"But you haven't talked to her yet about the pregnancy or your fears?"

"No."

"What about Dr. Wilson?"

"I'll try, maybe today sometime. He's left a few frantic Wilson messages, but it's hard to find time. She's sticking to me like glue at the moment. I might have accidentally given her the impression that I wanted a hotel room just for her to rest in, but I might well slip back out to go back to the hospital myself."

Jensen chuckled. "I wonder what might have given her that idea. She does know you." He paused. "So you're staying in a hotel room, not your mother's house?"

"I . . . can't go there right now. Too much else going on. Are you going to tell me I need to go over there and face down the ghost of Dad personally to move past things?"

"No, actually. I was going to suggest that you avoid the place if at all possible right now."

"A shrink telling someone to avoid something. Hell must be freezing over."

Jensen smiled, glad to hear little snippets of humor coming through. But he could also hear how tightly House was wound, much more even than yesterday morning. House wasn't even trying to hide things during this conversation, probably so emotionally exhausted from the constant effort of hiding it all from Cuddy that he was appreciating not having to for a few minutes. "Dr. House, be very careful at the moment. You are under far too much stress right now. Like I said, remember you have a breaking point."

House's voice dropped. "Shower's shut off. She'll be out in a minute."

"Please, talk to Dr. Wilson. You can call me, too, anytime. Maybe you could talk to us from the bathroom at the hospital if you get a chance with it empty; I doubt she'd follow you there. And please at least think about talking to Dr. Cuddy. Telling her everything is less stressful on her than you giving yourself a heart attack."

There were a few beats of silence. "I'll . . . think about it. Got to go."

House hung up and picked up the hotel phone to order breakfast for them. When Cuddy exited the bathroom, he was lecturing the hotel staff on exactly how he wanted the bacon and eggs.


	25. Chapter 25

House slowly limped into the ICU, Cuddy his constant shadow. Gallagher was in Blythe's room, checking her.

"How's she doing?" House asked.

"She's still unresponsive, but intracranial pressure hasn't built back up, at least. We just had to put her on the ventilator. Sats kept dropping, even on oxygen."

House propped himself on the edge of the bedrails. "Between the pulmonary contusion and the multiple rib fractures, that's not surprising." He sighed, looking at his mother. She looked so fragile.

_You will kill her, and it will be your fault._

House tensed up suddenly as his father's words echoed, and his leg immediately flared up at the motion. Cuddy grabbed his elbow to steady him. "Greg, would you please sit down?"

He heard the worry in her voice and kicked himself mentally again. His leg echoed the thought as if it had been carried out in actuality. _Shut up, damn it. This isn't real. _He hobbled carefully around the bed and settled into the chair, bringing his leg up to rest on the next chair. "I'd like to see her chart," he stated. "Especially the admission MRI, but really all of it." Last night at his first visit, he had still been in shock at the realization that it was his fault. Today, he suddenly wanted to try to do something, try to fix it somehow, try to make amends, although he knew the odds that he could help on a simple if severe MVA injury case weren't high. But he had to at least try.

Gallagher nodded. "I'll tell the nurses you can review it, given the circumstances." He had the chart himself, and he finished making notes, then passed it across to House. Cuddy sat down in the next chair, carefully moving his ankle and then putting it back down after she was seated, propping it across her thigh. House winced slightly, but he already had his analytical look on, totally lost in medicine, and she thought he hadn't even noticed her moving his leg, although his body had reacted. House opened the chart and started to review, going carefully from the beginning, and Cuddy looked from his face to Blythe's and back again. She was more worried about him than about her at the moment. This was shaping up to be a long day.

(H/C)

Wilson was in the middle of a consultation in his office when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, noting the caller ID, and immediately stood up. "I'm sorry," he apologized to the patient. "I need to take this for a minute. I'll be right back." He stepped out onto the balcony as he answered. "House, how are things going?"

"It's . . . we don't know if Mom's going to make it or not. She's still critical. I just went over her entire chart, but . . . I can't do anything. Just wait." House's voice was so tight and crackling with tension that Wilson was immediately alarmed. House didn't sound anything like himself. This was worse, far worse, than the last week.

"How's Cuddy holding up?"

"She's taking it pretty well so far, I think. I'm trying not to tell her anything else; just her worrying about the situation with Mom is enough . . . " He trailed off for a second there. "I haven't got much time. I'm in the bathroom now; can't talk in front of her. I'm . . . scared, Wilson."

The oncologist had no doubt that House got scared, but hearing him admit it was almost unheard of. He was clearly so stressed out at the moment that he wasn't even trying to hide, at least not from anyone other than Cuddy, and that itself scared Wilson. He took a deep breath, trying to channel Cuddy, reminding himself keep his voice calm. She had been so good in the last two months at handling emotionally charged House and staying matter-of-fact while doing it. Wilson tended to get agitated himself under pressure, but he couldn't do that and spook House away from talking rght now. He clearly needed to talk to someone badly. Of course, what he really needed was to talk to Cuddy, and she could have handled it better. Except that she really did have a bad history with pregnancies, but Wilson still thought that House's dodging must be stressing her out even more, not to mention what it was obviously doing to House himself. He sounded frighteningly close to the limit.

"Wilson?"

Great, now he was also worrying about having scared off his friend. Say something, Wilson, don't just stand here with the phone in your hand like a statue. "I'm here, House. You're scared about your mom? Or about Cuddy losing the baby? You just said she's dealing with things well so far."

"So far. But . . . not just about the baby. What if I can't be a good father?"

Hoo boy. Okay, keep calm, keep calm. Say something. "House, think of Rachel. You are wonderful with kids. You . . . " His call waiting beeped at that point. Damn. He was very tempted to ignore it, but his physician's mind immediately created a whole string of acute patient crises. "House, hold on a second, would you? There's another call; I'll see if it's an emergency, and if not, I'll put them on hold. Don't hang up, okay? _Don't hang up._ I'll be right back. Just a sec." His fingers fumbled with the buttons. "Dr. Wilson. Can this wait a minute?"

"Wilson." It was Cuddy. "I'll keep it short; I only _have _a minute. House went to the bathroom, and I don't want him to know I'm calling you."

"Cuddy, I was right in the middle of an urgent consult, and I really need to . . ."

"_Please_, Wilson. One minute." She didn't sound as stressed as House, but she sounded stressed enough that his concern increased. "Just tell me one thing. House said you did a full physical workup on his leg, MRI included, and found nothing new except the ankle. Is that true?"

Wilson's agitated fingers on his free hand were clawing at his tie. "Yes. It's a very bad sprain, one ligament torn, but I couldn't find anything else physically wrong with him. I've reviewed the scan a few times since, too." Perfectly true, because he himself still was having trouble believing it.

Cuddy gave a sigh of relief. "Okay. Thanks, Wilson, that makes me feel a little better. He doesn't seem right physically, but it must just be all the stress with his mother, plus the ankle and that bad weather last week. I hope so, anyway." Her tone was riddled with doubts. "Has he seemed like himself lately to you?"

The tie might never recover from the mauling it was getting now. "I checked out the leg thoroughly, trust me. It's just a sprained ankle. I spent a lot of time on it looking for anything else. Cuddy, I _really_ need to get back to my consult. It is urgent."

"Okay, I won't keep you. Thanks." She hung up, and Wilson frantically switched the call back.

"House? _HOUSE! _Are you still there?"

House was silent long enough to send Wilson's pulse into overdrive. "I'm here," he said finally.

"Okay, listen, House. Think about all the times with Rachel the last few months. It's going to be just like that. You are going to make a fantastic father."

"Rachel isn't old enough to have done much yet. What if she or the baby pushes my buttons wrong one day and I just snap?"

Wilson was floundering. Damn it, he'd need some Ativan himself before long. In fact, he might take some for all three of them. "House, remember, you _will not _hurt Cuddy. She's seen you at your worst at this point, and even so, she knows you'll never turn on her physically, even when you aren't fully aware of what you're doing. Rachel knows that, too. And the baby will. You'd be incapable of hurting them. Besides, you are getting treatment, so the nightmares and such will be better by the time your kids are older. They're already better. Jensen is good, and he's helping you. It's going to be okay, House. Everything is going to be okay." He half expected a snark back at the pure optimism and then was even more worried when none came. "House, I don't pretend to know what it was like when you were growing up, but just from what you've said, I wouldn't say your father hit stress points and snapped. It sounds more . . . well, deliberate. Wasn't it?"

He could literally hear House's breathing for a few seconds. "Yes," House answered finally.

"So I don't think you have to worry about snapping. That isn't what might turn you into him. _Nothing _is going to turn you into him. It's going to be okay, House. You'll be great at this."

House hesitated for a few seconds. "I wish I were that sure . . . okay, thank you. I'll keep you posted." His voice changed so much on the end of that that Wilson was puzzled until he heard footsteps. Obviously, someone else had come into the bathroom.

"Do that," Wilson emphasized. "You can talk to me, House. Anytime. Just call me whenever you get a chance; it doesn't matter when." _And please talk to Cuddy before you give yourself a stroke, you idiot. _

"Got to go. Bye." House's voice was brisk and businesslike, perfectly even with no hint of the fault lines beneath. The phone clicked off.

Wilson stared at his phone for a minute before snapping it shut. He then turned to go back into his office, for once grateful to tell someone he had advanced cancer, because at least in that situation, he knew exactly what to do.

(H/C)

House slowly hobbled back into the ICU and then froze. Cuddy was in her chair, looking at Blythe, cell phone in her hand as she was obviously talking to the nanny about Rachel. It was her free hand that drew his focus, though. It was resting almost unconsciously on her abdomen, and it was rubbing it slightly. Cuddy finished the call, then hung up. "Rachel's doing just fine, although she misses us. She's . . ."

House unstuck himself from the doorframe so quickly he all but fell over, and Cuddy jumped up and dashed across the room to stabilize him. "Greg, slow down. Please."

"Are you okay?" he asked urgently.

"Am _I _okay? Let's see, medically speaking, out of the three of us in this room, I think I'm well in the lead over both you and your mother at the moment." She dropped the light tone as she noted his intensely worried eyes. "I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Why?"

"You were rubbing your stomach while you were on the phone."

She had to stop to think about it. "I guess I was. Hadn't even realized it. It's aching just a little bit, barely at all. Probably just all the stress lately." She squeezed his arm. "Greg, I'm _fine_. I'll pick up some antacid in the pharmacy. In fact, it's almost time for lunch anyway; I'm probably just getting hungry. I'll bring us back trays, and you can take all your meds then. What are you in the mood for?"

He carefully turned around. "I'll go down to the cafeteria with you, to help you carry . . ." He broke off in mid sentence, realizing how ridiculous the offer sounded. "Well, to stretch my legs a bit." Not that that sounded much more plausible.

Cuddy was looking at him like he had three heads. "What is with you lately? The cafeteria is quite a walk, and the pharmacy is even further; you don't need to be doing that if you don't have to."

"I'll go with you," he insisted.

She looked at him, then back at Blythe, and then shook her head, obviously giving up on logic in this conversation. She decided she'd actually appreciate the opportunity to keep an eye on him. He seemed even more on edge than before. "Okay, but we're going to stop and rest at all the benches along the way."

"Fine," he agreed instantly. "That's a great idea." Cuddy eyed him suspiciously, then sighed and turned toward the door. House closed his eyes for one frantic second of prayer to a deity he didn't believe in, then carefully limped forward at her side.


	26. Chapter 26

By the time they returned from lunch, Cuddy was thoroughly puzzled. House was practically glued to her, as near as he could be, and every time she met his eyes, they were at laser intensity with not his usual diagnosis but near panic in them. What was with him lately? He wasn't acting like himself at all. "I'm okay," she assured him for the umpteenth time as they walked slowly back from the cafeteria.

"How's your stomach?"

"I felt much better after taking the antacids, just like I told you the last ten times you asked. Honestly, Greg, given how much has been going on the last few days, I'm not surprised I'd have a little indigestion. I'm sure you would yourself if you weren't on omeprazole already." She stopped as they approached a bench. She carefully helped him sit down, then sat beside him, and her own eyes were worried as they met his. "You're the one I'm concerned about. Maybe it's just stress from your mother along with the ankle, but I really would like you to get that physical once we're back in Princeton. You don't seem like yourself the last week."

"Wilson did . . . "

"Yes, he told me," she said, cutting him off, and then realized she'd given herself away. "I, um, called him earlier, just to make sure he did a thorough job on that MRI. You invited me to ask him, you know."

"What did he tell you?" House asked with an odd note in his voice.

"He was with a patient, so he only had a minute, but he said he spent a lot of time on it, and there was nothing new wrong other than the ankle."

House relaxed a fraction. Wilson had backed him up on the MRI and obviously hadn't revealed the pregnancy. Of course, Wilson was still missing large chunks of data that House and Jensen both had. That must have been the call on the other line earlier. House felt a twinge of sympathy for the oncologist, who probably had needed antacid himself after juggling both of them simultaneously. "Good," he said and realized too late he'd said it aloud.

"Good?" Cuddy immediately looked suspicious. "What did you expect him to tell me? It's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's the truth. Like I said, you can look up the scan yourself back in Princeton. Bad sprain, one ligament torn. No fractures. No clots or lesions in the leg. Everything was a bit inflamed, but that's all. I'm fine; you don't have to worry. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

Cuddy was starting to get dizzy trying to follow the jumps of this conversation. "Greg, I am FINE. Why do you keep asking?"

He scrambled desperately for a cover story. "I just . . . there's so much going on right now. Mom being hurt and everything. I . . . I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you." That last part was so intensely sincere that she believed him. She reached out to rest a hand on his arm.

"Greg, I'm fine. The antacid helped immediately. Really."

He studied her, weighing the answer. "Please tell me if you start to feel off. Okay?"

"I'm fine. It's okay." She squeezed his arm. "I know you've had a bad history, to put it mildly, but you aren't going to automatically have bad things happen to people just because you care about them. But please tell me, honestly, are you feeling okay yourself?"

He studied her with one of those silent differentials. "I'm worried with everything going on, and my leg is hurting. That's everything." Perfectly true, although open to multiple interpretations.

She stood and reached out to help him up. "Come on, let's go see your mother."

His worried eyes were still on her as he stood, and he overbalanced on the crutches and came very close to falling over, only saving himself by Cuddy's support and because he had been right against a bench anyway. "Greg!" She sat down again, both hands reaching for his leg as he landed back on the bench. He had shut his eyes against the pain flare for a second, but he heard the rising note of concern in her voice, and he opened his eyes again quickly and tried to give her a reassuring smile.

"I'm okay," he said automatically. "I stood a little bit too fast." She studied him with open skepticism. "I did get checked out, remember? There's just so much going on right now, and I wasn't thinking about placing my balance before I stood. My mind was elsewhere. I'll be more careful." She pursed her lips in concern. "Call Wilson again," he suggested. "Ask him to fax you the scan, or email it to your phone. You can go over it all you want, send it to an orthopedist, do whatever with it. There is NOTHING new medically wrong with the leg besides the ankle."

At that moment, his cell phone rang, and he answered, then said, "We'll be right there." He snapped the phone shut and set himself carefully on the crutches, then stood almost in slow motion. "Mom's starting to respond to pain a little bit. They're increasing sedation for the moment while she's on the ventilator." As he started walking again, he gave her one more worried glance and found her eyes on him with equal anxiety. They limped toward the ICU in silence.

(H/C)

When Jensen answered the phone late that afternoon, House took off on the conversation nearly before the psychiatrist had finished saying hello. "She was having stomach pain earlier."

"Is she all right now?"

"She says she is. She said it was just indigestion, and when she took some antacid, it helped. I've been watching her since, and she isn't rubbing her abdomen anymore, but what if this was tied to the pregnancy?"

Jensen sighed softly, then plunged in. "It's quite possible that it was just indigestion, but either way, I think it's a safe bet it's tied to stress."

"Exactly. She shouldn't have come. The whole thing with Mom is too much."

"I'm sure her primary worry at this point is you," Jensen said.

"I called Wilson myself a while ago and asked him to send the MRI to her phone. She's got all the medical proof right there."

"And she has intuition that is going completely against all the medical proof." Jensen changed course slightly. "Why do you think that concern over you is less stressful than concern over herself or the child would be?" House was silent. Jensen pushed on. "You are worth her concern. She knows something is wrong."

"A baby is the one thing she's always wanted," House said finally. "Of course that would mean more to her. And I haven't lied to her. There is NOTHING medically wrong, besides the ankle."

Jensen shook his head slightly, amazed again at House's uneven application of his brilliance. The man truly had an entirely separate scale for himself versus others. "Dr. House, do me a favor right now, okay?"

"I'm NOT going to . . ."

"I didn't mean talking to Dr. Cuddy, not just then. Would you take your own pulse?"

House grumbled a bit but clearly obeyed, judging from the shifting sounds of the phone. "121," he said after a pause, sounding slightly surprised himself.

"Can you honestly tell yourself as a physician that that is good?" House was silent. "Psychosomatic symptoms do have medical effects. It's only the cause that is mental, not the result. And you truly are putting a dangerous amount of stress on yourself at this point. Dr. Cuddy senses that. You need to talk."

"I'm sure it's not that high all the time; you've just got me worked up thinking about her." House's tone was stubborn.

"So take it a few more times throughout this evening. Compare several readings."

"And I am talking. I've called you twice today, and Wilson a couple of times, too. I've even admitted to him that I'm worried about being a father."

"That's good, but you need to talk to Dr. Cuddy."

House was silent for a minute, thinking. "I'll . . . keep an eye on her. Maybe if I find a time when not much else is going on, and if she doesn't have any more abdominal pain. . . "

Jensen gave a mental sigh. "The one thing that would help both of you most right now is for you to talk to her." House didn't respond, and Jensen knew he'd pushed that point as far as it could go at the moment. "How's your mother?"

"She's on a ventilator now, but the coma from the head injury seems to be lighter. They've had to increase the sedation. I went over her chart this morning. There's nothing else I could do, no suggestions. It's just waiting. She might have brain damage; we'll just have to see."

"Remember, this is _not_ your fault," Jensen reminded him. He knew it would take a while to sink in with House, but no harm in repeating it.

"Then whose is it?" House said softly.

"In this case, probably either the driver of the car or just nobody. Not everything is somebody's fault. The universe doesn't work like that." Jensen paused and then added a tail to the last sentence. "In spite of what your father always told you."

House was silent for a moment, then characteristically jumped subjects, as usual when he needed time to think about something. "By the way, you might want to go check on Wilson later. He might need to talk to somebody himself. He wound up with both of us on different lines simultaneously this morning, and I can imagine how wired he was by the end of that."

Jensen smiled. "I can, too. That's a good idea; I'll go see if he needs to talk. You are a good friend, Dr. House." House was silent, his standard reaction to a compliment. "And you _are_ worth worrying about," Jensen continued. "Watch Dr. Cuddy and ask yourself if knowing about the baby would truly be worse than worrying about you."

"I'll . . . think about it." A rare concession from House. "I've got to go. She'll be wondering if I fell in. . . " His voice caught slightly there.

"What is it?" Jensen asked.

"I hadn't thought of that phrase in years. That's something Mom used to say sometimes when I was a kid. I'd take a book into the bathroom and get lost mentally, and she'd eventually ask through the door if I fell in." He abruptly wondered if he'd ever hear her voice again saying anything. "Course, that was only when Dad was gone. There was always a time limit with him. I've got to get back to Cuddy."

"Talk to her, Dr. House. Please just talk to her."

A click of the phone, and House was gone without saying anything further. Jensen stood still for a minute, collecting his own thoughts, and then went to the nearest nurse's station and politely asked where Dr. Wilson's office was.


	27. Chapter 27

The third of my three favorite chapters in this one.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes. He'd resisted sleep as long as he could last night, trying to lie awake and fighting the effects of the half-dose sleeping pill that was supposed to prevent that. His mind had also been chewing over what Jensen said. At least he wasn't waking up from a nightmare at the moment. No, he simply needed to use the bathroom. He glanced at the clock - 3:00 a.m. - and then at Cuddy, dimly visible in the glow from the street light outside. She looked like an angel. He reached out lightly to touch her abdomen, still amazed that he had something as beautiful as she was in his life, that he might have a part in something as beautiful as her baby.

His bladder encroached on his thoughts again. Was there any possible way he could lie here three more hours? He considered it, then sighed.

Very slowly, he edged out from under the covers, moving in slow motion, clamping his teeth together to keep from making any sound at the pain. His leg was hurting even more than it had been, and flares of pain launched from the ankle to explode in starburst patterns in the thigh. Finally, he was sitting up on the edge of the bed. Cuddy hadn't moved, a tired angel, and he felt a stab of worry for making her come along on this trip with him. At least she hadn't had any more abdominal pain. Very carefully, very slowly, he picked up his crutches, levered himself up, and hobbled to the bathroom. Mission accomplished, he returned across the room, moving with infinite care and wincing at his leg, which was reacting to every single step, even not weightbearing. He didn't need to wake her up. He didn't need to disturb her any more than he already was. The pain flare that hit next not only was one of the strongest yet in the last week, but also hit his left leg instead of his right, his only good support, and as he flinched sharply, his full weight shifted to the bad leg. He had no chance.

Cuddy came bolt upright at the crash, her hands immediately going to the empty bed next to her, then frantically reaching for the light. "GREG!" She launched out of bed so quickly she nearly tripped herself. He was on the floor in a tangle of legs, splint, and crutches, clutching his right leg with both hands, tears of pain and failure welling up in his eyes. She was beside him in an instant, reaching for his leg, helping straighten it out carefully. "What happened?"

"I was . . . going to the bathroom . . . _damn_." He fought the tears back, pain warring with frustration.

Cuddy carefully reached for his splinted ankle, probing. He flinched. "Do you think you hurt anything new?"

"No . . . just tripped . . .weight came down on it." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He was not going to look at her concern and see his failure. "M'okay."

Her anger flared up abruptly, a forest fire that blazed clear through her. "NO, you are NOT. Damn it, House, stop trying to downplay everything. I don't know why you've decided you suddenly can't talk to me about things, but I am a doctor, even if a crappy one, and speaking purely physically, you aren't okay, and you haven't been all week, and we both know it. I don't care what tests Wilson ran. I'm calling an ambulance right now, and we're having you completely checked out HERE." Her determination swept her to her feet, and she started for the hotel phone on the nightstand.

"NO!" His voice had such frantic desperation that it actually stopped her after just one step. "Lisa, _please._ I'm okay. There's nothing wrong physically, except the ankle."

"Bullshit." She started for the phone again.

He tried to get up to stop her and fell back before he'd even made it halfway, his legs absolutely rebelling. She sensed the movement even with her back turned and quickly spun to help him back down. "You can't even get up. Even if you won't talk to me anymore, you haven't got a choice on this. I've had enough. I'm calling 911." She turned back to the phone.

"I . . . I know what the problem is already. I swear, Lisa, there's nothing seriously wrong."

She stopped with her hand on the phone and turned to face him. "If you know what the problem is, then why haven't you treated it?" His eyes fell, and he was silent. "Enough, Greg. We aren't playing this charade any longer. I'm worried sick about you, and you ARE getting evaluated right now." She picked up the receiver, her finger reaching for the 9.

House sighed. _Forgive me, Lisa._ "You're pregnant," he blurted out, nearly making it one syllable.

Her fingers froze on the phone, and then she literally dropped the receiver. The phone beeped in protest as it banged the nightstand. She ignored it as she turned to face him, a sunrise of joy - and yes, worry, but also joy - rising somewhere deep in her soul. "I'm _pregnant_?"

Miserably, he nodded.

She came back over to him, lowering herself to kneel on the floor. "I'm not . . . well, I might be a little late, come to think of it. But I've never totally been regular with my periods anyway. Are you sure?" He nodded again. "But that's _good_. Wait a minute, you aren't just trying to distract me, are you? What does that have to do with your leg hurting and your balance being so shaky lately?"

"I didn't . . . want to tell you. I didn't want you to worry . . . about . . ." He couldn't finish the sentence.

The light dawned. "Do you mean your leg has been hurting so much for over a week because you were hiding my pregnancy from me? So I wouldn't worry about losing the baby? And that's why you fell?"

"Yes. I did get thoroughly checked out, I swear. And then I talked to Jensen. All this at the moment is just psychosomatic - except the ankle. That's real. In fact, Jensen thought I hurt myself deliberately on some level, to give you a genuine excuse for my leg hurting." He shook his head. "I can't even _hide _things right anymore."

She stared at him. "You did all of this to yourself just to keep me from knowing about our child?"

He nodded again, closing his eyes, not wanting to see the new and increased fear mixed with disappointment in him that he was sure would fill her face. "I'm sorry."

She had been busy debating whether to kiss him or slap him, but his words tipped her off. "There's more, isn't there?"

Might as well tell her everything. No going back now. The damage was done. The baby itself would consume her thoughts from now on; his own fears were but a small addition. "I'm . . . looking forward to it. Really. I'm glad, and I'm not going to run out on you . . . but I'm also afraid . . . What if I'm a crappy dad? What if I ever hurt our child? What if . . . I can't . . .be enough . . ." And there, finally, he totally broke down, the tears spilling over now.

She pulled him over to her, holding him tightly, the two of them in a slightly rocking tangle on the floor. Her own tears were flowing now. She was still annoyed at him, but realizing how much the last several days had cost him, how much turmoil he'd been hiding, she was wishing she'd pinned him down sooner, wishing she'd noticed herself. How did he notice a pregnancy before she had, anyway? But mostly she cried for the still-wounded soul inside him, the part that still believed John House's prediction that he was destined to fail in all relationships. She made a private pact with her body then and there that she _would _keep this baby, damn it, not just because she already loved it, but for him. "Greg," she said after a few minutes, as soon as his own tears were diminishing and as soon as she thought she could speak herself, "_thank you._"

He pushed away slightly to look at her, blue eyes bewildered. "For what?"

She looked at him absolutely directly, wanting the words to sink in. "For giving me what I've always wanted - and then even giving me a pregnancy as a bonus."

"You mean . . . isn't a pregnancy what you've always wanted?" At that moment, with his blue eyes full of confusion and the remnants of tears, instead of his usual brilliant analysis, he looked utterly adorable to her, although she wouldn't have used that word to him. He never would have taken it as a compliment.

"I always told myself it was." She leaned in, kissing him deeply, then continuing a minute later when they broke apart for air. "But I wasn't totally being honest." She reached out to touch the side of his face. "I am _happy_, Greg. Right now. With you and with Rachel. Yes, I'd love to have a baby, and yes, I'm worried about another miscarriage, but even if it happens, I will STILL be happy with you and Rachel." She smiled at him. "Besides, do you realize what this means? I always had problems getting pregnant, not just keeping pregnancies. Even with the IVF, with the shots and perfectly clinically timed, it had trouble taking. We've only been using the usual method for a few months, and I'm already pregnant. That's a lot better success rate than I had before. So even . . . even if I do lose this one, I know that there is a great chance that we could try again."

He smiled suddenly. "Maybe you should have been using my services all along."

She smiled back. "Oh, I wanted to. You don't know how much I wanted to. That night in your office . . . I wanted to ask you."

"Why didn't you?" he asked. "I would have said yes."

"I was afraid of telling you." She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. "You might be able to identify with that," she said with a clear edge of humor in her voice, poking fun at both of them.

He honestly couldn't believe that they were sitting on the floor laughing about this, that she was able to laugh about it. "Yeah." He shook his head. "I've been stupid the last week, haven't I?"

"Yes. And I forgive you." She kissed him again. "I see why you were so worried earlier, too, with my stomach hurting. But the antacid did help immediately. I was telling the truth about that. I'm sure it was just indigestion because I was stressed myself. Greg, listen to this and remember it. You're right that being pregnant scares me; I know I could lose it. But there's also a lot of joy. I can feel both at the same time. But wondering if something is seriously wrong with you . . . there's no joy there. That's just fear. Mixed emotions are a lot less stressful than purely negative ones."

He stared at her, amazed at how she was handling this. "Jensen thinks I don't know how to deal with mixed emotions well. He actually said that was progress, since I didn't used to have mixed emotions about family anyway. Now I do and just can't handle them."

She leaned over to kiss him again. "You are going to be a wonderful father. I'm sure, even if you aren't. You already _are_ a wonderful father. But please, Greg, try to talk to me about things. I'm here for you. We're here for each other. Let's go through this together. The way you'll put the most stress on me is letting me see that something's wrong with you but refusing to share it."

"I'm . . ." He caught himself at the flare of warning in her eyes. "I apologize."

"Apology accepted." He reached out with wonder to put a hand on her abdomen again, and she let hers join him there for a minute. The discomfort of their position was starting to get to her, though, and she could only imagine what it was like for him. "Greg, seriously. Did you hurt yourself falling this time?"

"I don't think so. Annoyed the leg, of course, but no real harm done. Good thing I had the splint on; it probably saved the ankle." She carefully examined his leg, running her hands along it and then the other one, then up his ribs, finally winding up at his head. "Don't think I hit my head, either," he said with his old joking tone in his voice as they broke apart from the kiss, "but I'm glad you're making a thorough examination."

She smiled at him. "I'm always happy to make a thorough examination, but we need to get up. How's the leg feel?"

He ran a differential on it, surprised. "Better, actually. The ankle is hurting like hell, but the whole thing feels a little better." He shook his head. "It was actually the left leg that acted up that time to make me fall onto the right, and we know there's nothing wrong with the left. I really have just been psyching myself out the last week; I did get checked for physical causes." He looked up at her. "Please don't let this story get around. Nobody knows why it's been hurting lately except Jensen. I haven't even told Wilson that, and I'd sure never live it down in front of the team."

"We've got blackmail material on each other now. You only tore up your own ankle; I freaked out an entire plane full of people, myself included, into believing we had meningitis. My lips are sealed if yours are." He chuckled. "Come on, this floor isn't comfortable for either of us. Think you can stand up?"

"If you help me," he replied.

She stood and helped him carefully back to his feet, then handed him his crutches, watching as he limped heavily to the bed. His gait was awful, his leg clearly hurting more from the fall, but the shakiness of balance that had scared her so much the last several days was gone. Slowly he climbed back in bed, and she helped straighten his leg out, propped a pillow under his foot, and fished out an extra Vicodin to give him, which he took without comment. "Are you okay now?"

"Better. What's beeping?" He was finally relaxing the intensity of his worried focus on her enough to notice the agitated hotel phone, still dangling where she'd dropped it.

She hung up the phone and went around to the other side to join him, giving a quick glance at the clock. It was 4:00 a.m.

"Let's try to get some more sleep before morning. Do you think you can sleep now?"

He nodded. "Good night, Lisa."

"Good night, Greg."

They snuggled down against each other and drifted off to warm, shared dreams of their child.

(H/C)

His cell phone woke her. 6:15 a.m. now. She scrambled for it, reaching across him to the nightstand, trying not to wake him, but he was absolutely out, in the soundest sleep he'd had in days, and he didn't stir. "Hello?" she said quietly.

"Dr. Cuddy? This is Dr. Gallagher. Is Dr. House there?"

"He's still asleep. Can I take a message?"

"You'd better wake him up. He needs to get down to the hospital as soon as possible. We're probably going in again for emergency surgery."


	28. Chapter 28

House limped into the hospital as quickly as he could, which still wasn't that quickly, but at least his balance was better now, Cuddy thought. She carefully stayed close to his side as they made a beeline for the elevators.

Blythe's room in the ICU was a swarm of activity, Gallagher standing to one side and looking over a new MRI scan as the nurses got ready to transport Blythe to the OR. "What is it?" House said urgently.

"Vitals suddenly started getting unstable a while ago, and while we were working to stabilize her, ICP starting climbing. Just got a new MRI." He held out the sheet of film with the sequential images, and House took it and held it to the light.

"Damn. She's bleeding again."

"Significantly. We're going back in; I've got an OR in 15 minutes. I have to go get scrubbed."

"Is there an observation deck?"

"Yes. Just follow her; somebody will show you." Gallagher took the MRI back and headed off at a fast walk to prepare for surgery. House watched him leave and was suddenly struck with a surge of envy, a longing for two strong legs, the ability to stride out briskly like that, the ability to _do _something now instead of waiting helplessly to the side.

Cuddy touched him lightly on the arm, just reminding him of her presence, and he looked down at her. She could see the stunned pain in his eyes. "Did they miss something the first surgery?" she asked.

House shook his head. "If they did, I did, too. I saw the first MRI and read the surgery note." He still trusted his medical judgment. "They had the artery fixed, but this scan looks like bleeding along the same location. Sometimes a repair just doesn't hold." He stared into the room at his mother. She looked so fragile. He shuddered, remembering again their last phone call when he asked for the ring.

"Greg, it will be okay," Cuddy said softly.

He turned to look at her with a brief flash of pure House, exactly what she had been missing the last week. "You don't know that."

"You're right. Okay, I hope it will be okay. But whether it is or not, I'm here. Please don't forget that."

He stepped back carefully on the crutches as Blythe's bed rolled out the door and past them, then turned to do his best crutch-limp after it. "Believe me, I couldn't forget you," he said, but his eyes were fixed on Blythe.

He couldn't keep up. With a snarl of frustration, he saw the elevator doors close ahead, leaving him behind. Cuddy left his side for a brief moment to ask directions of a nurse, then came back. "Second floor. I got directions to the observation deck for the right OR."

A surge of gratitude went through him as the elevator door opened again for them to bring up the limping rear of the procession. "Thank you."

She squeezed his arm but said nothing else, knowing he didn't want to talk at the moment. The elevator made the tense, painfully slow trip in silence. Somewhere below them, Blythe had already reached Preop.

(H/C)

The surgery was long, complex, and nerve-wracking.

Even from the balcony, Cuddy and House could tell that Gallagher was running into problems. The body language of everyone there spoke volumes. They were all professional, efficient, handling each new curve thrown at them, but the normal chit-chat or even music that many surgeons enjoy during a typical case was absent. The problem was the quality of the artery in the first place, which had been starting to show some atherosclerosis and age-related changes even before the trauma that ripped it. After initially holding the stitches and seeming sound enough, the artery wall itself had surrendered to stress and was no longer holding the repair, with the injury even extending. There were methods of dealing with this, and Gallagher was clearly competent in his work, but he was finding the case challenging. Several times also, they had to pause while Blythe's vitals, which ramped from too low to too high and back again, were stabilized.

Cuddy had had a chair brought up for House and insisted that he sit down, which he agreed to only on the condition that she get a chair, too. He sat there glued to the screen, watching the procedure, obviously half in intense medical analysis and half in horrified realization that this was his mother. This brain, this tissue, this injury was not just some patient, not just another case, but was his mother. The physician side of him wished he could shut off the son's feelings and view it objectively; the son was struck by his inability to shut off the background medical analysis, even in his own mother's case. The dichotomy seemed wrong somehow. His cell phone rang at one point, and he pulled it out and switched it off without even looking at it. His entire being was focused on that screen at the moment. Cuddy's own phone rang about an hour later, and she glanced at caller ID - Wilson - and then switched her phone to silent. There was nothing else she needed to be doing right now other than being there for House.

Then the alarms went into shrill protest, and House came straight up out of his chair, getting as close as he could to the window, tension crackling in his whole posture. He jerked himself as if feeling each jolt of the paddles. One, two, three shocks, and a shaky rhythm beeped into life again. House collapsed back into the chair, turning away from the monitor screen for the first time, and buried his face in his hands. Cuddy was there in front of him immediately, pulling his head over against her. He wasn't actually crying, but his whole body was shuddering. "I'm not ready to lose her yet," he said. "We haven't even really had a _life._ We were just starting to."

The words were soft and muffled against her, but her ears caught them easily. "I know." She wrapped both arms around him, holding on tightly. "I know."

(H/C)

Finally, the surgery was over, and Blythe was back in ICU, still sedated, still on the ventilator. House sat next to her bed, his eyes shifting from her face to the monitors and back. "Don't do this, Mom," he begged her softly. "I still need you."

A tray abruptly appeared before him, and he looked up at Cuddy, startled. "Lunch time," she said. "I did say I was going down to the cafeteria."

He remembered that, now that he thought about it. "I didn't realize you planned to bring anything back."

"What, did you think I'd just eat for myself down there and forget about you? I can't forget you anymore than you can me. In fact, I brought back my own." She sat down next to him. "Eat, Greg. You need your meds, and you need the food. I know you're too wound up to realize it right now, but you do."

He picked up the Reuben she had brought and took an absentminded bite. "What do you want to name the baby?" he asked suddenly, trying to think of a future outside of hospitals and ICUs.

She smiled, accepting the diversion. "I don't know. I'll have to start thinking about it." She looked back at his mother. "If it's a girl, would you like to name her Blythe?"

A moment, and then he shook his head. "Maybe middle name, but not the first. That's too much like . . ." He trailed off.

"Suggesting it doesn't have to mean in memory. It could also be in honor. She'd like that."

He smiled wistfully after a minute. "She'll love it anyway, even if we named the kid Mick Jagger."

Cuddy laughed. "We are NOT naming our child Mick Jagger. You just said you'd rather go original, not derivative. We need to start making a list of names we like, one list for each gender. Then we can consider them together and gradually narrow it down to the top . . . what?" He was looking at her.

"Hopelessly organized administrator. This is naming a child, not planning a board meeting agenda." He had a light note in his voice, though, and she was glad to hear it after the incredible stressors of the last week, not to mention this morning.

"You're right. This is WAY more important than a board meeting. We need a designated notebook." She smiled at him. "What if it's a boy? I veto Mick Jagger, but do you have any suggestions?"

He looked back at his mother, and the light note completely fell away from his voice. "Anything but John."


	29. Chapter 29

Jensen knocked on the door of Wilson's office and entered at the oncologist's call of, "Come in." Wilson looked up at him with a mix of curiosity and anxiety.

"I just wanted to let you know, Cathy is being discharged this afternoon. We're heading back to Middletown."

"That's great. I'm glad she's doing so well." Wilson looked at his appointment book. "I'll bet you won't have fun rescheduling your practice for the past few days and catching up."

"It will be a challenge, but Cathy comes first, of course. Besides, I already did your session originally scheduled for today last night, and I've spoken to Dr. House a few times. This hasn't been a total break from the job."

Wilson nodded. "Thanks for coming by last night. I'm really trying to work on respecting people's choices for themselves, but it helps to talk about it." He looked up at the psychiatrist. "By the way, I realize you can't tell me content of conversations, but have you heard from House today?"

Jensen shook his head. "No, and I wish I would. Have you?"

"No. That's why I asked. I tried calling this morning a time or two just to check on him. Neither he nor Cuddy answered their phones." Wilson's restless hands fiddled with the papers on his desk. "House ignoring his can almost be standard operating procedure at times, but given how stressed out he sounded last time I talked to him, I wish he'd call back, even if it's just for a minute from the bathroom. And Cuddy ignoring her phone is unheard of."

"I hope everything is all right . . . with both of them." Jensen didn't like the sound of the double silence at all. Still, he couldn't call House, had to let him initiate contact, and for him to call Cuddy would quite likely be interpreted by House at the moment as overstepping his bounds, no matter what their conversation did or did not include.

"So do I," Wilson said in heartfelt agreement. He stood. "I'll walk to the elevator with you. I was about to take this case summary over to House's office and leave it for him anyway. He likes reviewing the odd cases, no matter which department." He came to his feet, and they headed out together. "His office is right over here. Like to see it? It's . . . unusual."

Jensen fought curiosity for a moment, then yielded to temptation. Wilson had a valid reason for entering, after all, and he himself had a direct link to House the doctor now. The hospital was public turf, and just looking around briefly was probably fair enough. Rifling through the desk or such would be crossing the line, of course, but Jensen was interested. He'd been fascinated by his glimpses of House the medical professional in the last few days.

Wilson pushed the door open. "Double suite," he said, indicating the currently empty conference room to one side. "He has the largest office in the hospital, other than Cuddy's. He runs differentials with his fellows in there, and this section is his alone."

Jensen looked around with interest. The first thing that struck him was the books, the second the thinking ball. Wilson had walked over to the desk to put down his case summary, and he followed Jensen's gaze and picked up the ball, attempting to toss it lightly. "He plays with this while he's thinking. And he never does something like that," he continued as the rebellious ball evaded his efforts at catching it and rolled across the room. "He can bounce the thing off the far wall, off the ceiling, catch it backhanded, bat it with his cane, juggle it. He never drops it."

"He is amazingly graceful," Jensen agreed.

"He was a spectacular athlete. Before his leg, I mean." Wilson chased down the ball and returned it to the desk. "Don't tell him I had that. He's used to people coming in and out of his office, but he can be touchy about sharing the ball."

Jensen looked around further, noting the art objects, the Eames chair - obviously a concession to House's leg. He also noticed the television and the sound system in the corner. "He watches TV," Wilson said. "Does that while he's thinking, too. The most mindless, stupid programs, but he says it helps him focus, and it actually seems to work for him. Lots of times, he'll go watch a soap opera for an hour and then come back with a new lead on a case. And of course, he listens to music all the time. Plus the video games." Wilson abruptly picked up the electronic game from the desk. "He left without his game. That's a dead giveaway that something serious was going on. Left his backpack, too. He must have just walked out after he got the call about his mother. Hopefully he had all his meds in his pockets, but I'm sure Cuddy would have checked on that."

The psychiatrist had been careful not to touch anything, but his eyes were absorbing it all. The ball, the games - fascinating reaction from someone who had been mostly denied toys or pure recreation in childhood. The TV was a similar statement. Jensen had never asked, but he could well imagine that there weren't many relaxing family evenings in front of the TV set with John House, even if it had been possible in all the different locations. The pieces of art were a reaction of a different sort - something lasting, something purely beautiful, after a childhood with very little of either. This office felt exactly like House.

Wilson was watching him. "It's like him, isn't it?" Jensen nodded. "You should see his apartment - but that's probably going too far without a direct invitation."

Jensen smiled with approval. "You're getting better, Dr. Wilson." The smile faded as he looked around House's office, noting as Wilson had the backpack in the corner. "I hope he's all right," he said.

Wilson nodded. "I hope they're both all right," he emphasized.

(H/C)

The afternoon had seemed endless. Several times, Blythe's vitals signs suddenly either dropped or elevated, in spite of all the pharmacological efforts to stabilize them. Once more shortly after lunch, she coded, and two shocks brought her back. House had stood back helplessly on the sidelines, Cuddy gripping his arm tightly, as his mother was resuscitated yet again. "What if there's brain damage?" he said suddenly at one point when they were alone in the room again. "What if . . . she never talks again, or we can never have a conversation?"

"I know," Cuddy said, and her tone was so heartfelt that he looked over at her.

"You do, don't you? Did you have a family member with a bad head injury once where you were just left waiting?"

"You might say that. He wasn't as close to me then as he is now, but I'll never forget sitting there wondering if I'd ever hear him again or see his beautiful eyes or have a conversation. There was no way to be sure what the damage was." She gripped his arm tightly and blinked back tears. "That was one of the longest days of my life. But eventually, it turned out okay."

The puzzle pieces clicked. "You're talking about me. But I was just an employee . . ."

She shook her head vigorously. "You were NEVER just an employee, House."

He smiled. "I was glad you were there. I wouldn't have wanted to wake up to anybody else. Not even Wilson - too much guilt tied up with him. I wouldn't have wanted to hit that immediately while still trying to piece together what world I was in. Everything was fuzzy at first when I woke up, all the senses slightly off. I was glad you were there, even if I thought you were only worried about your hospital asset." He turned to face her suddenly. "Did I ever tell you what happened on the bus?"

She shuddered, remembering her own version of what happened on the bus, remembering her horror as House crumpled to the floor in full cardiopulmonary arrest. She had been the first one there, Wilson a close second, and their frantic efforts at resuscitation had taken a frighteningly long time to take effect.

"Hey." He reached out to touch the side of her face. "I'm here, remember? I made it."

"I know." She blinked the tears back. "What were you going to say about the bus?"

"When I was in a coma, I was on the bus with Amber. It was wonderful in a way, because nothing hurt. I knew Wilson would hate me. I never imagined you'd be waiting when I woke up, although I'm glad you were. But I didn't want to go back, to face the pain and the guilt and . . . just being alone again. I didn't want to hurt anymore. Amber told me I needed to get off the bus."

Cuddy shivered again. She'd never really liked Amber, who had struck her as a frightening miniature version of House with less insight, less judgment, and less brakes, but she suddenly felt a wave of gratitude toward her. "That wasn't your fault, you know. And Wilson never hated you."

"I know. I know that now. Didn't then." He looked back at his mother and suddenly was struck with a mental image of Blythe on her own bus and John House as the other part of the conversation, claiming her once again. If she encountered him now, even just a hallucinatory version she created, with her knowing what she now knew, what would his reaction be? Would she for the first time see the full scope of his violence, be the recipient of all that she had missed? Would her subconscious punish herself against John's actions because her son had ultimately failed to protect her after all? House rocketed up to his feet, totally forgetting the crutches. His leg screamed at him, and he half fell, catching himself against the bed rails. "You CAN'T have her, damn it. You had her for 50 years. You can't have her anymore."

"House!" Cuddy had come to her own feet and was behind him, holding him firmly.

House gripped his mother's hand. "If he's in there going after you now, tell him to go to hell. Tell him to go back to hell where he belongs, and you come back to me."

Blythe didn't respond. House sagged against the bed abruptly, totally drained by that outburst, suddenly aware of how much his leg was hurting.

"Sit down." Cuddy's hands were gentle but firm, guiding him back to the chair. He obeyed meekly, letting her get him settled and prop his leg back up, feeling suddenly ashamed that she had been there and witnessed that. He shouldn't be stressing her any more than he already had by his silence of the last week.

She read the thought. "Don't you dare apologize to me, Gregory House." He shut his mouth, biting off the words. She knelt in front of his chair and pulled him over against her. "I'm here, Greg. And I'm _glad _to be here with you. Not glad it's happening but glad to be here with you. We'll get through it somehow, whatever happens."

Closing his eyes, breathing in her scent, feeling her arms, he almost believed her.


	30. Chapter 30

Cuddy sat in one of the chairs next to Blythe's bed. House's body was turned slightly in his chair, and his ankle was propped across her leg. He was eating dinner now, at least in theory, but he kept forgetting what he was doing, eyes going back to his mother, until she would gently remind him and he would take a few more bites. He'd been working on the sandwich and chips she had brought for over an hour.

He had been very quiet since his outburst against his father earlier, still somewhat embarrassed that he had reacted so strongly in front of her. Blythe's vitals seemed stable for the last hour, maybe finally breaking free of the seesaw they had been on all day, but Cuddy still wasn't sure what her chances were of getting House out of here to sleep tonight. Part of her wasn't even sure she should try, given Blythe's rollercoaster course. Still, he looked absolutely worn out and stretched thin over the events of the day on top of the events of the last week. She wasn't sure how much more he had in him before he just collapsed. She sighed softly.

He heard her and looked away from his mother. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. I was just thinking that you really look like you need a good night's sleep tonight."

He looked back at his mother. "I probably do, but I'm not sure I'll get one." He suddenly looked back across at her. "You're not going to try to drug me, are you?"

"No." She stroked his splinted ankle, trying to remove with her fingers the pain hiding under the splint. "I'll be with you, but I'm not going to force you."

"Right, you'll just get me worried about you, too," he snapped, then immediately looked away. "I apologize. Didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's okay. Let some of the tension out some way. I can take it."

A wistful expression flickered across his face. "I would always go run," he said. "All my life, that was my outlet when things got too much. Until . . . " He heard her pang of guilt and looked back at her. "The leg was NOT your fault."

"I just wish . . . I'd had any options." Cuddy remembered even after all these years the sinking feeling she'd had at Stacy's decision.

At that moment, Blythe abruptly started choking, and House sprang to his feet as quickly as he could, leaning over her. "Get the doctor," he said urgently, and Cuddy departed at a run, neither of them in the stress of the moment thinking to simply hit the call button. House checked the ventilator settings, but all of the readings looked okay. It was then that he realized that her eyelids were fluttering. The problem wasn't that her breathing was getting worse; it was that she finally after all these hours was starting to wake up. Her body was fighting the vent. "Easy, Mom," he said soothingly. "Take it easy. You're in the hospital." She seemed to react to his voice, but it only increased her struggle to open her eyes. She was gagging, choking around the tube, her casted left arm moving to try to brace her side against the ribs.

House looked at her vitals and made a quick decision, although making sure there was an Ambu bag nearby if needed. He switched the ventilator off, unhooked the facial harness, and started pulling the tube. "Okay, Mom, I'm getting it out. Let yourself cough as it comes. Okay?"

A nurse and Cuddy both ran back into the room. "What are you doing?" the nurse asked, trying to reach for House, not the patient, and Cuddy held her back.

"He knows what he's doing," she snapped. "Doctor has been paged, House."

He finished pulling the tube, Blythe coughing as it came and then settling down a bit as it came out. House watched her chest closely, waiting for the breath and breathing in deeply himself when he saw her chest rise. He looked up at the monitors, checking sats, watching the figure for a minute. She was breathing on her own. "Mom, do you hear me?" he asked, looking back at her.

Blythe's eyelids were still twitching. Slowly, as if they weighed a hundred pounds each, they opened. Her eyes weren't totally focused, but they roamed the room even so, trying to nail down the source of the voice. "I'm here," House said, and she reacted, eyes going to his side of the bed, fixing on him and blinking gradually into focus. "Hey. You were in an accident. You're in the hospital, but you're doing better now. Just take it easy." He looked back up at the monitors again. Sats were holding steady. Blythe's left arm moved again, bracing against the ribs. "You have a broken arm and several broken ribs," House informed her. "And a bad head injury. Just lie still."

The nurse pulled free of Dr. Cuddy and came up on the other side of the bed, starting a quick evaluation. Blythe's eyes briefly trekked to her, then made the slow journey back to her son.

Gallagher entered the room. "What's going on?"

"She woke up and was fighting the ventilator, so I extubated. I've been watching her sats; she's holding steady."

Gallagher quickly came up to the other side of the bed. "Mrs. House, can you hear me? Look at me, please." He pulled out his penlight and started studying her eyes. House abruptly realized that he was standing at the side of her bed without crutches, braced against the bed rails and the hard splint, and that his leg was absolutely killing him. He sagged slightly.

Cuddy was there immediately, picking up the crutches from the floor and handing them to him. She knew better than to ask him to sit down right now. As she helped get him propped up and positioned, though, Blythe's eyes turned back that direction, temporarily ignoring Gallagher. She moistened dry lips, and her voice when it came was weak and hoarse, annoyed from the tube, but the words were unmistakable. "Greg. What's wrong?"

He looked back at her, puzzled. "What's wrong? Oh, you mean the crutches? I just sprained my ankle. I'm okay."

Her still slightly foggy eyes held a mother's concern. "Tell . . . the truth. . . Greg."

"Really. Just a sprained ankle, honest." He looked quickly at Cuddy. "Tell her it's just a sprained ankle, Cuddy."

"He sprained his ankle, Blythe. But it's okay. I'll make sure he takes care of himself."

Blythe relaxed slightly. "Lisa." Her eyes fell shut for a moment, then reopened. "Where. . . "

"You're in the hospital in Lexington," Dr. Gallagher provided. "You were in a very bad car accident. Do you remember that?"

"Don't move your head," House quickly put in. "Just say yes or no."

"No," she said after a moment.

"What's the last thing you do remember?" Gallagher asked.

She considered it for a minute. "Lunch at the senior center."

"On what day?"

"Friday. They always have fish on Friday."

Gallagher, House, and Cuddy looked at each other. "Is that the wrong answer?" Blythe asked, suddenly worried.

"No," House said. "Don't worry about it. Be glad you don't remember the accident." This was Wednesday. Blythe had apparently lost the entire weekend. Not to mention his phone call about Oma's ring on Friday night.

Blythe's eyes were falling shut again. "I'm tired," she said softly.

"Mrs. House, if you can stay awake just a few more minutes, I need to run a few quick tests. Can you do that for me?" Gallagher asked.

She opened her eyes again obediently, but they tracked back over to her son. "You look tired, too. Lisa, watch him."

Cuddy put a hand on House's arm. "It's okay, Blythe. I will."

"Follow my finger with your eyes," Gallagher started. Cuddy began to pull on House slightly, urging him back toward the chair, but he stiffened up against her efforts, absolutely though silently refusing, and she understood after a second. He didn't want his mother more worried about him; she had enough to deal with right now. They both watched as Gallagher ran through the neurological checks, and then finally, Blythe was asleep. Really asleep this time, not in a coma, just asleep.

House sagged abruptly, feeling like a balloon with the air rushing out. Cuddy helped him back to the chair. "You need to go rest, Greg."

He shook his head. "I ought to stay . . . in case she needs anything."

Gallagher cast his vote. "She seems to be stable finally. Neuro checks look good, and I'll write new orders for pain meds. Hopefully she'll just sleep through tonight. And if I may say so, you look close to needing a hospital bed yourself."

"I'm okay," House insisted. "Just tired."

"So am I," Cuddy said, playing her trump card. "It's been a long day."

It worked. His eyes were immediately on her, clinical, assessing. He looked back at Gallagher. "You'll let us know if anything happens?"

"I will, but it looks like hopefully we're past the worst of it."

House closed his eyes for a moment. Past the worst of it. Maybe they were, on all fronts, but he had been so wired for so long that it was hard to tell himself to let go. Had to think of Cuddy, though. "Okay." He opened his eyes and pried himself back out of the chair, balancing carefully on the crutches. "Let's go."

Cuddy felt her own wave of relief breaking over her as they headed back for the hotel room. Please, she thought, let this be the end of it. They got ready for bed back in the room, and House was out within a minute of hitting the pillow. She stayed awake a little longer herself, watching him sleep, until her own tiredness overtook her and carried her off into dreams.


	31. Chapter 31

I heard a song on the radio last night driving home from rehearsal, and it really reminded me of House and Cuddy (and unfortunately Lucas). My muse showed no interest in it, but if anybody wants to take a song seed and make what you will of it Huddywise, this is a good one. You Don't Know Me by Ray Charles.

Here's 31. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy opened her eyes, waking up to the delightful sensation of having had nothing wake her up. The alarm hadn't gone off. The phone hadn't rung. House wasn't locked in a nightmare and hadn't gone crashing down in a new effort to cripple himself further. No, nothing had happened. This was a marvelous way to greet a new morning.

She looked over at him. He was deeply asleep, his face in rest a roadmap of the stressors of the last few days. That itself was an improvement; he had seemed shielded even in rest lately. She thought this might be the first full night in over a week in which he had totally let himself relax into sleep and let go of things. It was probably only thanks to the sleeping pills that he had gotten any rest at all.

She shook her head in exasperation. _You absolutely adorable idiot, _she scolded him silently. _You have got to start thinking of yourself now and then._ The root trouble was, of course, his ongoing self-esteem issues. Apart from professionally, he was still struggling with the concept of self-worth, although Jensen had definitely zeroed in on that and was trying to help deal with it. A few months of therapy still had trouble battling 18 years of daily derision, though. House truly didn't believe that worry over him would be anywhere near as powerful as worry over other things, because he didn't think he was worth worrying much about.

One hand rested lightly on her abdomen as she thought of the baby. _His _baby. Somehow, this one seemed even more precious to her than the previous attempts. As much as she had tried to convince herself that it made no difference whether the male contribution came from Donor 638 or from House, she realized now that it made a world of difference. _Please hold on,_ she encouraged the tiny baby within. She wanted this one so badly, not just for herself but for him. She had no doubts left at all about his abilities as a father - something that would have stunned her several months ago but something which she would stake everything on now. But there had to be a baby to prove that to him. Rachel was wonderful, but he could always mentally tell himself that she had the advantage of not sharing his genes. No, he needed to be part of creating something wonderful and beautiful, of a success that he could point to and experience daily, something undeniably good that he had had an undeniable part in bringing about.

Yes, she was worried about her past history. But this was the most deliciously wonderful worry she had ever felt. She found herself imagining girls and boys, all with his magical blue eyes, as she watched him sleep.

He shifted slightly, starting to climb up toward the surface, and his lips tightened as the pain obviously began waking up along with the rest of him. She shook her head, thinking of him tearing his ankle up this much just because he was trying not to talk to her to spare her stress. She had to convince him somehow that hiding things made them even more complicated.

Hiding things . . . abruptly, she thought of the last two months at PPTH, her own nagging worries about what the board would think, the nurses would think, the staff would think, even what the janitor the other night would think. House himself had said he was fine either way, but he had kept their secret in response to her wishes. Hiding things would become even harder as her pregnancy became obvious - hopefully became obvious - but suddenly, she asked herself exactly what she was hiding for and what sort of message she was really sending to him. She wanted him to feel worthwhile, but she had bent over backwards to keep their relationship unknown, except to Wilson. She wasn't responsible for his poor self-image - that credit went to John House - but were her mixed signals helping the situation any?

But what would people think?

On the other hand, did it really matter what people thought? Weighed against her newfound happiness lately, other people's opinions suddenly seemed very small.

House shifted again and flinched, obviously jolting the leg as he moved. His eyes opened, focusing on hers. "Good morning," he said, and shifted again, seeking a more comfortable position, trying to hide how much it hurt.

She reached across him to the nightstand, picked up the Vicodin, and handed it to him. "Good morning," she replied.

He hesitated, then took the pill bottle and shook out two, gulping them down. "Sleep well?"

"Wonderfully. What about you?"

He nodded. "I think that's the best night I've had in over a week. What were you thinking about there? I saw the wheels turning."

"Greg, I want to tell the hospital about us."

His eyes widened, startled, and then went instantly into differential. "You mean the baby is going to force you to. You could always just say this is another IVF if you want." He looked away.

"NO." She reached over and pulled him back around to face her. "NOT because of the baby, Greg. I've wanted to tell the hospital about us for two months, even before I knew I was pregnant. I was just worried about my professional image. But I've decided that no matter what happens, no matter whether I keep the baby, no matter what the board says, I want to let the world know that I'm in love with you. Because this is _good. _I'm sick of hiding how happy I feel. If they don't approve, that's their problem." He stared at her, speechless for the moment. "With or without this baby, I _love _you, Gregory House, and I don't care who else knows it."

He shook his head slightly, then said, "Are you sure we're awake? If this is a dream, it's a nice one, though. What about the board?"

"If we can still work together professionally, which I think we've already proven the last few months, what business of theirs is it?"

He smiled suddenly as another recurrent image, one of Cuddy removing her wedding ring every morning as she left for work and putting it back on at night, evaporated. The ring. . . he thought again of Oma's ring. He still wanted to give it to Cuddy, but he wished it hadn't carried such a high price.

Cuddy saw his expression shift from happiness to regret. "Greg, what is it?"

"Nothing."

"_Greg." _

He flinched at her tone. "It's . . . I'll tell you when we get back to Princeton, okay? I was just thinking of something, but I really need to show you."

She looked at him, assessing that. "Do you not want to tell people about us?"

"It's not that. Believe me, I want them to know."

She relented. "Okay, I'll grant you a temporary secret, but the clock is ticking. I'll hold you to telling me later. No more chewing yourself up with secrets. We can deal with anything if we talk about things."

He shifted slowly to sit up on the side of the bed, feeling the Vicodin start to kick in. He rubbed one hand across his face. "We didn't miss any messages from the hospital, did we?" He was grabbing his cell phone himself to check even as he spoke. "No, nothing. Probably ought to call Wilson today; he kept trying yesterday, but there was too much going on for me to take a minute to talk to him. And a minute probably wouldn't have done it."

"I sent him a text last night saying we were fine. That will keep him a little while, although I agree we ought to call him. We'll head over to the hospital after taking a shower and having breakfast." He flinched, remembering his efforts so far at taking a shower in the hotel room, which had been cut off at the pass. He'd simply been taking a sponge bath every morning. With his leg hurting more than usual, his ankle unstable without the splint, and his balance so shaky, the thought of taking a shower had seemed like an invitation to suicide.

Cuddy heard the thought. "Actually, since things aren't as urgent on the time line this morning, why don't you take a hot soak? There is a tub, and a soak would help your leg. I know it's still hurting quite a bit." He considered. It would still be challenging to get in and out, but maybe doable with the shakiness gone. Cuddy reached across to put a hand on his arm. "Getting in and out is an issue, but we can make it work together. Let me help you."

He considered it, then smiled at her, the smiles with his eyes that she loved so much. "I'll try to work on that more. We'll have to be careful, though. Both of us. You can't put too much pressure on yourself. Maybe help me out with balance a bit, but don't overdo it."

In response, she stood up, came around the bed, and handed him his crutches. "We'll look out for each other, deal? Let's go. We can handle this."

As they slowly headed for the bathroom, he thought that maybe, just maybe, she was right.

(H/C)

When they got to the hospital, they found Blythe finishing up a cup of Jell-O and some juice. She looked considerably more alert and focused than she had last night.

"Morning, Mom. How are you feeling?" House limped into the room and sat down in the chair.

"Everything hurts, but overall, I feel better." She studied him. "How did you sprain your ankle, Greg?"

"I'd been standing still too long, and when somebody called me, I turned around too suddenly." He smiled at her. "Believe me, this one really was purely my fault."

"You need to take better care of yourself. You still look tired."

"I had a great night's sleep. Ask Lisa; she's my witness. But I'm not the patient here. How does your head feel?"

Blythe sighed, leaning back a bit into the pillow. "It hurts, especially if I move it. But I don't feel as fuzzy as I did last night waking up. I still can't remember anything past Friday noon. I was trying this morning, but it's just a blank, and thinking about it only makes my head ache more."

Cuddy shuddered. "From what we heard, you probably don't want to remember that accident, Blythe. Just leave it that way."

Blythe looked from one of them to the other. "I apologize for making you two come all the way from Princeton. Especially since you're hurt, Greg."

"The accident wasn't your fault," House pointed out, trying to ignore the inner voice that was still informing him it was his own. He couldn't think about that. On any subject except the one gigantic lie at the center, he had always been horrible at lying to his mother. He jumped to another topic quickly, changing the subject. "When you get discharged, you're still going to have trouble with mobility for a little while, and you'll need to be watched for late effects of the head injury. Would you like to come up to Princeton?"

Blythe studied him for a long moment, then started to shake her head and obviously thought better of it. "Don't take this the wrong way, Greg, but no, I don't think that's a good idea. You're hurt yourself - and don't even try to tell me you'll be perfectly fine in a few days; I saw you walk in. Besides, I have my . . . appointments down here. I wouldn't want to put that on hold, and we've talked before about how getting some distance during therapy is actually a good idea. And you and Lisa are getting to know each other better, and I wouldn't want to be in the way."

He was relieved, for all the reasons she had just mentioned plus the baby, but he had felt like he ought to make the offer. "I understand, Mom. But you'll need help."

"Maybe we can get a home care nurse. I wouldn't mind that." She looked from House to Cuddy. "So tell me, aside from me dragging you two away from your lives, how are things?"

Cuddy thought of telling her the good news, but part of her hesitated. Not that she questioned House's diagnosis, but she meant to get a pregnancy test just to make sure, and she also thought they might delay telling people until past the danger point. That especially applied to Blythe. A false alarm or a loss would be an awful letdown for a potential grandmother who had waited decades with no hope of grandchildren. House's eyes met hers, absolutely deferring that decision. "Things are great," she said.

At that moment, Patsy the neighbor came through the door, then skidded to a surprised halt. "Blythe! You're awake!" She hurried over to the bed, starting to reach out to hug her, then obviously thinking better of it, not wanting to cause her pain. "The last few times I've checked . . . but never mind that. How are you feeling?"

"Achy and still tired, but better today than last night."

"She doesn't remember the accident," House put in.

Patsy shuddered. "You don't want to, trust me."

"Were you there, dear?"

"Yes. Oh, Blythe, we've been so worried. The arrangement of flowers there is from the senior group. Everybody sends their best wishes." As he listened to the conversation rattle on, House abruptly realized what a circle of friends Blythe had created down here since her retirement and especially since his father's death. Good people. They would help her. "And just let us know if there's anything at all you need," Patsy continued.

Blythe gave a sheepish smile. "Actually, this is going to sound silly, but there was a book I was reading. It's on my nightstand at home, and I was just getting to the good part. Could you bring it up to the hospital next time you come? I have a feeling I'll have plenty of time on my hands in the next few days, and I want to know what happens."

"Oh, of course. I'll get it and bring it to you, Blythe, no problem. I have that key you gave me for emergencies."

"No." House's abrupt and firm entry into the conversation startled everybody. He slowly hauled himself up and balanced on his crutches. "Thank you for the offer, but you don't have to do that, Patsy. I'll go over to your house right now, Mom, and get it myself."


	32. Chapter 32

Cuddy entered the hospital bathroom, carefully checked underneath the stalls, then pulled out her cell phone and dialed quickly.

"Dr. Cuddy?" Jensen's voice was clearly concerned. "Is Dr. House all right?" It now had been over a day since he'd talked to him, and Jensen was worried to put it mildly.

"I'm . . . I think so. I hope so. I need your advice on something, though." She heard the unspoken disclaimer. "Without violating confidentiality. I know you can't tell me what he tells you in his sessions. First of all, he talked to me finally, after he fell again when I was there and I wouldn't let him downplay it."

Jensen gave a sigh of relief. "Good. That's excellent. How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling amazingly good, really. A little tired, but I hadn't been having much of a problem with morning sickness this time, which is one reason I'd missed it. Not so far, anyway. To this point, I feel better than I usually do. And yes, I'm scared about my past history, but this is a lot better than wondering if there was some serious physical problem with him. There wasn't any good side to that. I just . . . I just hope I can hang onto this one for him. He had himself absolutely tied up in knots trying to keep it from me, and even though he finally admitted it and we talked, I know he's still scared of being a father. I hope I get a chance to prove him wrong on that."

"So do I," Jensen said. "Both of you deserve this." He was relieved to hear how well Cuddy was handling this, although he'd always thought House wasn't giving her enough credit. Worry but also anticipation in her tone. She was doing as well as she could be, he thought. "So what is the current problem you called me about?"

"His mother is finally starting to improve, although yesterday was a medical rollercoaster. She did nearly die. Greg was worried sick, but at least that was after he'd talked to me the night before, so he didn't have pressure two different ways." She sighed. "One of these days, he's going to give himself a stroke just bottling things up."

"Hopefully not. He is making progress. Although I agree he was creating far too much pressure on himself this last week, and I was very worried about him, too. I'm glad he finally talked to you."

"Yes - when he was out of options. I was in the process of calling an ambulance to get him admitted. I would have, too. Can't believe he did all this to himself. For somebody so brilliant, he can be an idiot at times. Anyway, back to his mother, this morning, she's a lot better, awake now, although she doesn't remember the last few days or the accident. She wanted something from her house. The neighbor volunteered to go get it, but he said he'd go instead."

Jensen came to attention. "He volunteered to go over to her house? His own suggestion, not anybody else's?"

"Yes. Is that good? Bad? Should I . . . but how would I stop him anyway if he's determined to? A few days ago when we got to Lexington, he didn't think he could deal with going anywhere near the place. Now he's suddenly changed his mind, but he's been under so much stress already, I'm not sure whether he's ready . . . I just wanted your opinion on it. And please don't tell me this time that I'm here and know better than you; give me something to work with here." There was enough edge under her voice to remind Jensen that Cuddy had had a very stressful several days herself.

Jensen thought for a minute. The trouble was, it could be either a good decision or a very bad one, and he wasn't near enough to judge. The basic idea was a good one in theory, but House also had quite a track record of ignoring his own limits and was hardly in peak condition right now. Jensen was afraid he might be trying this too soon. There was also the contributing factor of Cuddy's pregnancy - House probably once again would try to do this without involving her, but he would stress her more if he shut her out. She had a remarkable ability to stay calm under pressure as long as she felt like she knew what she was dealing with and what to do; it was the things she felt were undefined or felt that she was unprepared for which really upset her. This was a pretty tangled mental ball of yarn, but Cuddy didn't need a psychiatric differential; she needed a step-by-step manual for proceeding instead. "What sort of physical shape would you say he was in at the moment?" Jensen asked.

"His ankle is quite bad and giving him fits, and that's making the whole leg hurt more. So his pain levels are still up, legitimately, not just him hurting himself. His balance is much better, though. That got better as soon as we talked. He's - definitely stressed, I'd say, but better than he was a few days ago. He's had a very rough time lately, between himself and his mother. She crashed right after he talked to me, and that whole next day was medical crises. Today's the first day we've had any kind of emotional breathing space at all."

"How is he on sleep?"

"Probably still short, but last night, after his mother finally stabilized, was the best he's had in days. I have been making sure he was eating and taking the meds correctly."

Jensen considered it. "Like you said, if he's determined to go over there, there is no way to stop him. I'm not even sure we should try, although I wish he were in better shape for it. But go with him. Do not wait out in the car - that's a point to dig your heels in. He probably will want you to do that, but don't let him go in there alone. I don't think he's ready to be there alone, especially not when he's stressed and in weakened condition already. Stick with him and just let him do whatever he needs to do, without you showing any kind of emotional reaction to it."

"Like bringing him out of the nightmares."

"Exactly. Calm and matter of fact, but above all, do not let him be alone at any point in there. You are the visible reminder that his past is over; he needs that. And don't be surprised if he breaks something."

She gave a soft sigh. "I almost wish he would. He's way too controlled at times. He was yelling at his father yesterday just for a minute, not like a flashback but more of a challenge, and then he got embarrassed about me hearing that. I was trying to convince him I didn't mind, but he's so used to not letting people see things."

"What was he yelling at his father?" Jensen asked curiously.

"Told him to go to hell and that he couldn't have his mother. House had been telling me right before that about a hallucination he had while he was in a coma a year ago, a conversation with Wilson's girlfriend where she told him he needed to come back, and I think he started wondering what his mother might be experiencing."

"Actually, dealing with his feelings toward his father in ways other than flashbacks and nightmares is progress," Jensen said. "Getting mad is a step forward. He has been so repressed all his life."

"Believe me, it doesn't bother me to hear him yelling at John. I would have killed the SOB myself, and then I'd have made targets of him to put on the closet door and throw knives at regularly. I still can't believe House has functioned as well as he has all these years."

"It is remarkable. It could be good for him to go to the house, but he needs to stay grounded in the present. Getting mad or even destructive in the present is far better than getting mentally trapped in the past. That's what I think you might help him with. So just stay with him, immediately with him, but also stay out of his way. Try not to get upset yourself. If he does get locked back in the past, just try to draw him out of it calmly and gently - you're very good at that, and he will respond to you. But as long as he's in the present, leave him alone. Just be there."

"I think I can do that. Thank you; I feel better for talking about it some. I'd better go now before he starts to wonder. I'm talking to you from the women's bathroom at the hospital." Jensen burst out laughing. "What?"

"Let's just say, you aren't the first person recently to utilize that chance for privacy."

She started smiling herself. "You mean House . . . I must have been giving him fits sticking so close to him those first few days before he talked to me."

"You were. But what he needed to do was discuss it with you, not me. I was glad to be a temporary pressure outlet, though. I was quite worried about him."

There came a knock on the door. "Cuddy? Everything all right in there?" There was a new ripple of concern under House's voice. Damn.

"Yes, I'm fine," she called. "Everything's fine. Be out in a minute." She dropped her voice. "Got to go. He's starting to worry about me. Thank you, Dr. Jensen. And thank you for not telling me to just wait outside to take care of myself, no matter what happens with him."

"Waiting outside in anything isn't taking care of yourself. It's the worst possible option for you. Nothing he could do in there would be more stressful than that."

She smiled. "Tell him that sometime. I need to go. Hopefully we'll be back in Princeton soon."

"Hopefully. Good bye and good luck." Jensen hung up, and Cuddy took a few seconds to straighten her hair and then went out to join House and head for his father's home.


	33. Chapter 33

To any residents of Lexington, apologies for geographical impossibility if any. My reference source had to be the internet for that last scene. I don't live there and don't have first-hand knowledge. Also apologies for the flag. I myself would never have done this. House, I think, would have.

(H/C)

Cuddy pulled up to the house, parking in the driveway. It was a compact, pleasant, white structure with flower beds out front. It might have been any all-American family's retirement home. She switched the car off, and House opened the door. "Just wait in the car," he said. "Hopefully this won't take long."

"No," she replied firmly, opening the door and getting out.

He paused halfway in the process of prying himself out, sitting with his legs out the door. "Cuddy, I'd really rather do this alone."

"But you don't _need_ to do this alone," she replied. She had walked around the front of the car at this point and was standing facing him. "You aren't alone anymore, Greg."

"I'm just going in to get a book," he said, with a bit of annoyance under the tone, but he was looking down, not meeting her eyes. That was an outright lie, and they both knew it. "It won't take long."

Cuddy switched tactics. "Still, do you want to think about me sitting out here waiting, wondering? Worrying every minute about what's going on? That's a lot more stressful than going in." She reached forward to put a hand on his arm. "Greg, I don't care what you need to do. That's fine, whatever it is. Go right ahead; you're not going to shock me. But I would chew myself into knots waiting out here if I let you go in there alone."

He sighed and slowly levered himself up. "Have I told you lately how annoying you can be at times?" There was the ghost of their old give-and-take under his tone, and she smiled.

"Actually, you haven't. Thank you. I was going into withdrawal." She stood back, giving him room to maneuver. "Let's go."

He started limping up the path, hesitating at one point. She followed his eyes and realized that he was looking at the flower bed. It looked fairly well established, definitely older than a year. John House apparently had only objected to "frivolous" things for pure enjoyment where his son was involved. Either that or Blythe had put her foot down, but watching House's expression, Cuddy voted for the former. House stood there for a minute, looking at the plants which were in full celebration of spring, then he limped on to the door.

House had borrowed Patsy's key, which was faster than going looking for Blythe's effects. Patsy was back at the hospital right now, keeping Blythe company until they came back. The key slipped easily into the lock, and the door opened. He stood there for a minute in the doorway, then visibly squared his shoulders and limped on in.

The living room was large. The furniture was strictly positioned and arranged, but afghans and throws here and there gave it a more homey touch. There were several framed pictures on the wall, and House limped over to look at them. One was a family shot, obviously taken at a studio. Cuddy found herself studying it with interest. House was probably about age 10 in this picture, a thin child with haunted eyes. His posture was absolutely straight. His parents were behind him, one hand of each on his shoulders. Cuddy studied John's hand. Large, firm, unyielding. He was in military uniform, although this hadn't been taken at a military event. The background was one of the classic solid ones that could be found in any studio. Blythe alone was smiling, although Greg was trying to and failing at it. John looked like a hawk, almost imperial. Proud, dignified. The patriarch literally hovering over his family. Cuddy looked at House trapped in the middle, held by both his parents. His right shoulder, the one with his father's hand on it, dipped ever so slightly, making him just minutely lopsided. He'd cringed away from the touch just that much. Nobody would have noticed without standing here for several minutes studying the shot, as they were doing now.

A few pictures were of Blythe and John together, oddly looking like any couple. John looked more relaxed when his son wasn't around, although he never lost the military bearing. There were some with just Greg and Blythe, several of Greg alone. There were no pictures of Greg alone with John. There was one other picture of all three of them together, that one definitely taken at some military function and not a posed shot. House was about 11, hanging slightly back and clearly people watching. Cuddy had to smile slightly at the expression on the boy's face, one she had seen countless times. Pure observation and analysis. John had one arm possessively around Blythe and once again was the pure military officer. He wasn't even looking at his son in that one, and House, a bit behind them, was consequently a bit less stiff, though still tense.

Her two favorites out of all of them were one of House as a teen apparently at a piano recital, his eyes closed, his whole body into the music, and one of him on the lacrosse field. He was leaping to make a catch, his entire body from outstretched arm to legs one surge of effort. Pure coordination and grace. She closed her eyes briefly, fighting back tears, but opened them again when she felt House move next to her.

He had reached out to the wall of pictures and picked up one of them, one of Blythe and himself. She wondered what drew him about that one, then realized that he had simply been taking the picture off the wall and was now studying the wallpaper behind it. Once she switched frames of reference to the wall and not the pictures, it was obvious that the pictures had recently been rearranged and that a few formerly there were now missing. The wall still remembered their obviously long-term presence, though, the slight sunfading outlining their memory.

House replaced the picture and abruptly turned, too abruptly, and stumbled slightly. Cuddy caught his elbow to steady him, and he jumped at her touch, then looked at her as if reminding himself of her presence. "The bedroom is probably back here," he said, starting across the room toward the hall.

"You've never been here?" She wondered the second she said it if that had been the wrong question to ask, but he answered her.

"No." He went on after a moment. "From the time I was 18 and left, I've never set foot in his house again. Any of them. Wilson at least didn't insist on that at the funeral."

She reached out again to touch him, trying to convey silent support and understanding. The first door on the hallway was to a bathroom, the second one to a bedroom. House paused in the door, studying it. This was clearly Blythe's room. In fact, it was so purely Blythe's room that Cuddy came to the same conclusion as House, although a few seconds after he arrived there. Blythe had switched bedrooms very recently and probably taken over the former guest room. This was all new, the bed, the dresser. Personal things on the dresser and the decor were older, but the main furniture was so new it barely had the tags off.

That one fact abruptly softened Cuddy's entire attitude toward Blythe. Yes, she had been oblivious, and she had been blind, but she was sincerely trying to work through her own issues now. Probably she had merely told any neighbors close enough to notice that she couldn't sleep any longer in the room she had shared with her dead husband, leaving them to fill in their own incorrect reasons why.

House crossed over to the nightstand and picked up the requested book, trying to shove it into a pocket to free up his hands. Cuddy reached out to take it, leaving him free to work the crutches. He turned back to leave this room, not having any reason to linger here, but when he got to the door to the hallway, he turned deeper into the house. The closed door at the end of the hall was indeed the master bedroom, and House stopped after opening it, just standing in the door for a long moment. He had been tense before but was more so now, his breathing quickening slightly. She couldn't fit beside him and his crutches in the doorway, but Cuddy touched his back, rubbing slow circles on it, hoping to remind him of her presence.

The furniture here was entirely different from that in Blythe's new room. This was old, solid, firm, unyielding. Very much like her picture of John House. The bed was made, but there were also some stacks of things on it, and House went over to go through them. Here were the pictures that had been removed in the reorganization of the living room wall. There were photo albums, too. Blythe had apparently been starting a project of rearranging her albums, not wanting these pictures lost but not able to display them anymore. Cuddy was careful not to touch anything, but House went one by one through the stack of rejected pictures, setting each aside in a new stack after inspection, so she had a good view.

She realized immediately why these specific ones were being banished from the walls. There were a few more family shots, some of Greg alone, some of him with Blythe, but in every last one of them, he had either a cast, a bruise, or some kind of bandage visible. She closed her own eyes, wondering again how anyone could be so totally oblivious, could think that the son in that lacrosse shot in the living room was just uncoordinated and clumsy. She could feel House trembling slightly as he came to the last picture in the group. He held it in his hands for a minute, staring at himself, around age 8, with a lengthy cast on his left arm. This probably dated from just after he had been pushed down the stairs. He abruptly snapped out of reverie and clearly thought about throwing the thing at the far wall, but he caught himself. The albums immediately next to it were their own message. Blythe couldn't bring herself to totally discard pictures of her son. He would respect that.

He turned then, looking around the room, clearly looking for something, and she wondered what. His eyes caught the flag on the far wall, although that hadn't been what he was after, just grabbed his attention on the way. He limped over to it and took it down, the carefully military boxed flag from the funeral. Burial with full honors. He put it down on the bed and resumed looking around. Eventually, he even wound up at the closet, opening it. His father's clothes, including a whole section of military uniforms, still hung there, but House pushed past them, finally finding what he apparently was after at the back of the closet. It was a small closed box on top of a stack of storage boxes. He picked it up without opening it, then tried to back up awkwardly, trying to both hold the crutches and the box while moving. Cuddy reached out to gently take it. "I'll carry it, Greg," she offered. He yielded, but he didn't close the closet door just yet, standing there in the doorway eying the uniforms.

Abruptly, he fished in his pocket, coming up with a pocket knife, and he ripped the blade open, yanked the first uniform off the hanger, and carefully cut out the section with the lapel awards. He let the uniform fall to the ground, stuffed the torn cloth of awards into his pocket, and went after the next uniform, moving quickly but systematically, cutting out the awards section from each. He was breathing heavily by the time he had finished. He left the pile of uniforms on the closet floor, carefully closed the knife, then backed up and absolutely slammed the closet door.

He stood still for a moment, his body trembling slightly, and Cuddy balanced the box and Blythe's book on one arm, then reached out to touch his arm with the other hand. He jumped sharply, startled, then looked at her and at the box she held. She saw him come to some conclusion in his mind, change course mentally. Whatever plan he'd had had just been revised. "Get the flag," he said after a minute, his voice as hoarse and rough as Blythe's had been when she woke up and was extubated. He turned and quickly limped out of the room. Cuddy picked up the memorial flag in its glass case from the bed, then hurried after him. He was already to the front door. She made sure the house was locked as they left, then followed him to the car. Once he was settled, she offered him the flag, the small box, and Blythe's book, which he took silently.

"Back to the hospital?" she asked, perfectly calmly, as if nothing had happened.

He shook his head. His breathing was still accelerated. "Go to the river."

"The river?"

"Kentucky River. It runs south of the city. There should be a bridge somewhere. A _quiet _bridge." His voice was absolutely taut.

"Okay. I'll find one." She put the car in gear and headed south, working her way out of the city, occasionally glancing over at him as she drove. He had put the book up on the dash and was staring at the small box on top of the flag in his lap. His eyes were absolutely intent, but they were full of a whole kaleidoscope of emotions, anger, determination, fear. Since it wasn't just terror, she left him alone. _Mixed emotions are better than purely negative ones._

She found the big river easily, but it took her a while to find a road with a fairly unpopulated access to it. Finally, she pulled the car over. They were well out of the city now, and there was little traffic at this bridge at the moment. She looked over at House, who was still staring at the box and didn't seem aware that they had stopped. "Greg." She reached over to touch him lightly. "Greg?" He jumped and focused. "We're here."

He raised his head, looking around and studying the setting, evaluating it. Finally, he nodded and opened the door. She got out and came around her own side, taking the flag and the box from him while he stood. She followed with them as he limped to the railing.

He propped himself on the rails, then reached over to take the box, and for the first time, he opened it. It was John's military medals. House took the first and threw it as far as he could toward midstream. It landed with a satisfactory splash and sank. Another medal followed it, then another, a whole shower of military decorations flying out from the bridge. "You don't deserve them!" House shouted as he came down to the last few. "You hear that, you dead bastard? You don't deserve them. They'll get buried in mud, and nobody will ever know they're here, because it WON'T MATTER!" He hit the bottom of the box, then pulled the lapel patches from his pocket, shoved them into the box, closed and relatched it, then sent the box itself hurtling out from the bridge, landing in mid stream with the largest splash of all. Cuddy had been absolutely silent through all of this, but after he threw the box, she wordlessly handed him the memorial flag. He rebalanced himself, freeing up a crutch, and then positioned the glass box on the edge of the railing. Cuddy stepped back, giving him room. With a vicious cut, he knocked the box off, the glass breaking on impact with the crutch, the wooden box flying far out over the river, then landing with a splash. House leaned on the railing, looking at the water. He was sweating at this point, his breathing accelerated. Cuddy after a minute edged over closer to him, her hand once again drawing circles on his back.

Below them, the big river flowed on, the surface of the water smooth and unmarred, the current steady. No one would have guessed what now lay beneath it. House stood there for probably 15 minutes, just watching the water flow away beneath them. Slowly his breathing settled down. Cuddy waited patiently until he finally looked over at her, a bit sheepish, searching her eyes. She smiled at him encouragingly. "That was wonderful," she said.

Surprised, he studied her. "You really think so? You're not . . ."

"Yes, I really think so. I especially liked the sound of glass breaking with the crutch and the way that box soared way out there. You can still hit a home run." He was still looking at her as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, and she closed the gap, embracing him tightly, her lips finding his.

They weren't sure how long they stood there, but when a car passed and hit the horn, a clear message of "get a room," they split apart.

"Let's go take Mom her book," House said.

"Sure. It'll be lunch time by the time we get back, and we can eat with her. I came a good way out of the city." Cuddy put the car in gear and headed back for Lexington. She looked over at House after she had gone a few miles.

He was sound asleep.


	34. Chapter 34

House was amazed.

Cuddy's stubborn determination to accompany him into the house had annoyed him at first. He couldn't imagine carrying out his plans with her right there. That irritation quickly turned to gratitude, however.

He indeed hadn't set foot in his father's house in over 30 years. Any meeting with his parents - and those had been as few as he could make them - had been on neutral turf. He had planned his spur-of-the-moment visit as best as he could during the drive over. Go in, get the book, get John's medals, and leave, end of story, at least the end until his plans for the medals later. That strategy was already slipping even before he entered the house.

It was the flowers that gripped him first. Sitting there blooming, looking beautiful and innocent, looking ordinary. Looking like they belonged in front of any American home, not in front of one where his father had objected to anything frivolous. The nomadic lifestyle hadn't allowed Blythe much scope for landscaping anyway, and she'd never had more than a few houseplants in his childhood, but clearly, here in their retirement home, she had carefully tended and proudly displayed flower beds. They were well established. They had been here before his father's death and weren't just a reaction to it. The absolute incongruity of flowers in front of John House's house was so almost representative of his childhood, pure illusion on display for the public, no hint at the truth that lay beneath. With difficulty, House snapped himself back to the present, back to his agenda, and went on to the house.

He made it all of two steps inside before getting sidetracked again. This time it had been the pictures, specifically the lacrosse picture, that drew him almost magnetically across the room. He quickly looked away from that one, making a show of focusing on the others, but the brief image seemed burned into the backs of his eyelids, and the pain in his right thigh and ankle doubled. Sports had always been an escape for him, although even there, he was a rebel, deliberately focusing more on lacrosse than a mainstream sport just so John House could not have one of his mental images of the ideal son fulfilled. But House had reveled in the game, the coordination, the effort, the smooth response of his body when he called on it for movements such as that catch. It was gone. He couldn't even think of it as paradise lost, because his childhood had hardly been paradise, but it suddenly seemed colossally unfair all over again to have had one of the rare positive aspects of his youth ripped away from him.

Attempting to escape the memory of all he'd lost with the muscle of his leg, he quickly looked at another picture to distract himself. Unfortunately, it worked too well. He remembered the day of that studio family shot clearly, remembered John's hand on his shoulder, seemingly in affection but so much harder than Blythe's on the other side, as if John had to physically hold his son on the chair. The unspoken threat had been communicated straight through his tightening features. Play the nice family getting a picture. Put on appearances. Don't tell. Because if he told, John would kill her, and it would be Greg's fault.

Looking at that one was even more painful than the lacrosse shot. Desperately, he wrenched his gaze away from his father, looking for any picture without him, and his eye was caught by one of himself with his mother. He had appreciated it at times, all the oblivion included, because as he'd told Blythe, at least when they were alone, he could pretend to himself and not merely to others that everything was normal. Looking at that shot had made him notice the pattern of the wall fading behind it, though, and he took it off the wall to look beneath it. The story was clear. Blythe had rearranged the pictures, had obviously removed some. Taking all with her husband away would be too obvious in her clearly active social life, but she had removed what she'd considered the worst, unable to look at those reminders every day. If only House himself could remove the memories selectively, just take them down off the wall. John sneered at him from the family shot, telling him again silently that it would fail. Unfortunately, House himself already knew that. Blythe was learning secondhand, but his memories were too acute to simply be put away. He'd tried it for years, and he'd found himself on a downward spiral, on a dark road that probably would have led to Mayfield.

Abruptly, he turned, wanting to escape his father's gaze from multiple places on the wall. He turned too quickly, his leg protested, and Cuddy stabilized him. Cuddy. He'd actually forgotten about her as he'd been lost in reverie, but she suddenly reminded him of his agenda, of the whole reason for coming here, which wasn't to look at pictures.

Blythe's bedroom was newly furnished and totally like her. He was glad for her and touched that she would move out of her bedroom of years for him, even though her experience of her husband had been different. It was a statement to her desire to deal with things, to move forward. He was grateful that they would have a chance to, that she seemed to be recovering now.

The master bedroom was unavoidable. It dominated the house for him. Here was the ghost of his father, and the ghost of his father came right up beside him as he looked through the pictures. Every one of them told a story, not just a visible story but a story of pain for House. He remembered it. The burns across a wrist. The broken collarbone. The backhanded slaps that would knock him partway across the room. The broken finger. The badly broken forearm from being pushed down the stairs. With every picture, the corresponding injury reawoke. He was drowning in pain, the walls closing in, the memories seizing him, unable to even throw the picture and break free of them.

He snapped himself away, trying to keep his breathing steady, looking for the box with the medals. The flag caught his eye instead, and he took it off the wall. John didn't deserve the honor of a memorial flag for his service. House would take that, too. He finally found the box in the back of the closet, and Cuddy's offer to hold it once again startled him into remembering her presence. He gave her a quick assessing look, but she didn't seem stressed, at least. He had the medals. He had what he'd come for. He would take them and leave, destroying them later, striking at the one thing his father had valued most, his military honor.

As he backed out of the closet and the uniforms he'd pushed through resumed their normal hang, a flash of the decorations on the lapel of one caught his eye. He'd take those, too. No military honors left. He'd take all the awards. He pulled out the pocketknife, and the slash of it through material was almost mesmerizing. Honors ripped away, the uniform desecrated and left in a heap on the floor. That was the uniform his father should have been wearing all those years, the one with the visible flaw, the gaping hole so close to his heart, showing the world the cold lack within the man. Faster and faster, House cut the awards away, and by the time he finished, he was trembling, hearing in his mind the angry shouts of his father the one time that a 5-year-old Greg had dared to treat one of his father's uniforms disrespectfully by accidentally knocking it to the floor. The pain of all the old injuries was flaring up again, his father was ranting in memory, but he had kept on, and he had the awards. All of them. There was not an intact uniform left. Let the ghost of John wear those. House slammed the closet door shut on the desecrated pile and then stood for a moment, still hearing his father, his body still trembling as if waiting for the retaliation that once would have come.

And then she touched him.

He had forgotten totally about Cuddy again in the process of violating the uniforms, but she touched him, startling him sharply at first, but he knew even as he jumped that this wasn't his father's touch. He could never mistake her touch for anybody else's, not even locked in memories. She touched him. She reached into the darkness of his past and raised him up to the present again. He looked at her, seeing to his surprise not shock, not pity, not disappointment, but pure calm understanding. She grounded him, and the ghost of John fell into silence. In that moment, House changed his plans. He'd intended to take his father's medals back to Princeton and toss them into the incinerator in the basement at PPTH, but looking at Cuddy, he suddenly couldn't take those medals back on a flight beside her. They should be buried here with his father. They had no business going back to his new life and to the future in Princeton. Of course, destroying them now meant that she would see, but all at once, it didn't matter anymore. She had come into this house with him, and she had pulled him back from the darkness. She should be there for the full show. He remembered as a child watching boats slash through water, their engines churning it up behind, and marveling at how within a few minutes, the surface was smooth and undisturbed again. He had longed for the same ability, but he'd felt more like water perpetually directly underneath the engine during childhood. He would go to the nearest big water he could find, and he would put the medals there, and the water would accept them, cover them, and keep rolling on. It was better, much better, than taking them back with him to Princeton.

His thoughts were a swirl on the way to the river. Determination, fear, and anger all warred together, like the water churned up by an engine. He didn't regret his decision, but he hoped he would have the strength to go through with it. He didn't even realize they'd arrived until she touched him again, her presence once more reminding him that this was now, and John House was dead.

Throwing the medals had been cathartic, almost a challenge, trying to send each farther away from himself, watching the greedy river accept them, forget them, and roll on. Throwing the box had been even better. Batting the memorial flag off the bridge with his crutch had been every bit as satisfying as a spectacular catch on the lacrosse field.

Finally, it was all gone. All except Cuddy. He was amazed at her words not just of understanding but of appreciation, and as he kissed her, he marveled again at the future that was in front of him. Not Mayfield. Cuddy, and Rachel, and the baby.

Worn out from the emotions of the morning, he did not resist the overwhelming need for sleep as she started driving. He was sure she would find their way back. He was in good hands.

(H/C)

"Greg." Her voice. Her hands on his arm softly. "Greg? Come on, wake up." He opened his eyes, looking around. They were back at the hospital in the handicapped parking lot. "I hate to wake you up, but your mother probably is wondering where we are by now."

"Right." He stretched a bit, as far as he could without hurting, then opened the car door. "Thank you," he said as he moved his annoyed leg out.

She did not ask for what. "You're welcome," she said, accepting it as freely as he gave it. She got out of the car herself and came around to his side. "Do you want me to carry the book?"

"Yes. Leave the cripple's hands free." His tone was light, though, and she smiled at him.

"Only a very small part of you is crippled." She rested one hand on her abdomen. "Most of you is in perfect working order, and I have proof."

Blythe up in her room was looking a bit concerned when they walked in. She, of course, knew that Greg had not been to any of her houses in decades. Since it was his own suggestion, she figured he had something in mind and needed to do this, but she was still relieved to see them enter. "Didn't mean to take so long," House said as they came into the room, "but we decided to take a drive. Nice spring day."

"Oh, that's a great idea," Patsy put in. "You two have been practically living here since Monday. You needed a break. Where did you go?"

"We went down to the river," House replied, then continued. "Mom, I picked up a few things of Dad's that I wanted while I was in the house."

Blythe immediately suspected, though Patsy didn't, that the two halves of that statement were intimately connected. "You're welcome to anything you want, Greg," she replied. "Did you have a nice drive to the river?"

"Very nice," he agreed. He hobbled to the far side of her hospital bed and sat down. Cuddy offered Blythe the book, then came around to help House get his leg propped up.

"Well, I'll leave you two to talk," Patsy said, coming to her feet. "I'll be back tomorrow morning to visit, Blythe, and I'm so glad you're doing better."

She left, and Cuddy looked at House. "It's nearly lunch time. They'll be bringing you a tray, Blythe, but I'll go down and get something for Greg and myself. What are you in the mood for?"

"Burger and fries," he responded. "And after lunch, Mom probably needs to rest this afternoon. Why don't we go back to the hotel room then and take a nap ourselves?"

"Sounds good," Cuddy replied. "Back in a minute, you two."

As she left, he turned back to his mother. "Mind if I ask you something, Mom?"

"Not at all. Although nothing much could ever keep you from asking questions anyway." She smiled at him.

"What was it like being in the coma?" She closed her eyes, considering. "I'm just curious because I had some interesting experiences last year after the bus accident when I was in one."

"It was odd," Blythe started. "Very hazy, sort of unfocused, but most of it was about wandering in a field of flowers."

House sat up straighter, and his leg yelped. He massaged it with one hand. "Flowers? You were seeing flowers?"

"Yes. What's wrong, dear? I guess that's not what you saw in yours?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not. Any time I've ever had the chance, mine were a lot stranger. I just wondered . . . well, never mind. So tell me, how are you feeling?"

They were deep in friendly conversation when Blythe's lunch tray arrived at almost the same time Cuddy did.


	35. Chapter 35

Saturday they flew back to New Jersey.

Blythe was doing well, although she would remain hospitalized for several more days. She had encouraged them to get back to their lives, though, and with the crisis over, Cuddy found herself increasingly worried about her two babies, Rachel and PPTH. She tried not to say anything until she found House Friday afternoon staring into space, and when she asked him, he admitted that he was missing Rachel. Cuddy immediately started looking up plane tickets as he started calling home care agencies. Firm arrangements had been made for a home nurse on Blythe's discharge. Friday night, House had had his usual session with Jensen by phone from the hotel room, telling him all about his father's house and the river on Thursday morning. Friday night also, Cuddy had gone out shopping to give him some privacy for the call, and she returned with new shoes, a blouse, and a pregnancy test, which had been positive later on that night, with both of them waiting out the stick together.

So it was on Saturday morning that they found themselves hurtling through the sky back toward Princeton.

Cuddy looked over at House. He was looking much better, although his leg still clearly wasn't appreciating the plane trip. She reached over to rest her hands against his thigh, once again making herself a human heating pad. He looked over at her. "You need to set up an appointment with an OB/GYN," he said.

"I will. Actually, I think we both need an appointment."

He tilted his head, the spark of mischief in his eyes. "Not that I don't want to go along, but I doubt he could really do much for me."

"Yours won't be with an obstetrician. I want you to see an orthopedist and really work out a plan for that ankle." He immediately tightened up, the automatic rebellion kicking in. "You arranged yourself to have the MRI sent to me, so I know exactly what's going on now. That's going to need a careful course for several weeks and probably PT. The ligament won't heal up right by just trying to ignore it, and you don't want to have to have surgery."

"At the moment, all it needs is immobilization."

"House. Come on, you don't want to think of me worrying about you, do you?"

He flinched. "Are you going to be playing that card for the next 8 months when you need to talk me into something?"

"Only when the lesser cards don't work," she replied. She leaned over to kiss him, not able to get too much into it on a plane but definitely a kiss with a promise.

"Mmm," he murmured as they broke apart. "You know, you have other bargaining chips you can use."

"I'll use those, too. Are you going to make an appointment?"

He sighed. "I just got _released _from Orthopedics last week for the wrist. I can just imagine what Watson will say when I come back."

"I'm sure you're up to the challenge."

"All right. Slave driver." He reached out to touch her abdomen. "At least you're a pregnant slave driver."

She smiled, the baby taking over her thoughts again. "Yes. I am."

(H/C)

After they landed, picked up her car from the long-term lot, and drove back from Newark to Princeton, House wanted to go to his apartment, to her surprise. She knew he was also eager to see Rachel and had expected him to accompany her to her house first thing, but he insisted oddly that he needed to check the mail. "Drop me off, go get Rachel, and come back. We'll have a welcome home party right here, and I'll pay for pizza. I'll even play you Cuddy's Serenade - although you'll have to cut me a little slack for only being able to use the left foot on the pedals."

The thought of Cuddy's Serenade won her over. "Okay. We'll be back in a little while." She waited at the curb until she saw him get safely in the building.

House limped into the foyer and over to the mailboxes for the building. With a deep breath, he put his key in the box and opened it. Several letters and one small box addressed in Blythe's handwriting. He stuffed them in a pocket to free up his hands and limped carefully to his own front door. Once inside, he settled on the couch, propped his leg up with a wince - he knew Cuddy was right about the ankle, although he hated to go back to Watson - and studied the mail stack. The letters were mostly bills, and he tossed them aside onto the coffee table. He picked up the box, studying it, looking at his mother's familiar handwriting. Then he pulled out his pocket knife, reached for one flap - and froze as a detail registered in indelible ink on his mind.

It was postmarked Saturday.

He stared. One, two, three looks, and the answer remained the same. It was postmarked Saturday.

It wasn't his fault.

_It wasn't his fault._

A spring of pure euphoria welled up in him. Whatever Blythe had been doing at the post office on Monday, it hadn't been on his behalf. He wondered idly what it was, but they might never know, and it didn't matter. It wasn't his fault.

With slightly trembling hands, he cut the box open and withdrew a carefully tissue wrapped ball. Ripping the paper away, he got to the prize at the center, Oma's ring. It looked rare but not outdated. The diamond glittered back at him. It was absolutely perfect. He looked at the short note that had also been stuck in the box with it. _Gregory, I am so happy for you. I know what she'll say, but be sure to call me later. All my love, Mom._

Suddenly unable to sit still on the couch anymore with the joint waves of relief and anticipation breaking over him, he got to his feet and limped to the piano. His leg was hurting, but the rest of him felt absolutely marvelous. He started playing Cuddy's Serenade, then stopped. He'd promised her that, and it felt somehow like cheating to enjoy it without her when she would only be a little while. He thought of the whole last week, of Cuddy, her unfailing presence through everything, of their baby, of their hopeful future. And he began to play.

When Cuddy entered the building a while later, she could hear the music and his voice through the door, and she paused to listen.

_You raise me up so I can stand on mountains. _

_You raise me up to walk on stormy seas. _

_I am strong when I am on your shoulders. _

_You raise me up to more than I can be._

He finished the song, and Rachel, who had been listening, too, stretched out her hands to the door, chubby fingers waving, trying to grasp the vanished music. Cuddy smiled and opened the door. "Hey. That was wonderful, Greg. You probably ought to have your foot up, but that was wonderful."

He stood and limped over to the couch, holding out his hands after he was seated, and she passed him Rachel. "I did at first, but I just couldn't lie still any longer. Hi, kid. Missed you." Rachel reached out to run both hands through his stubble.

Cuddy carefully moved his leg up herself, propping his ankle on the coffee table, then stood back and studied him. "What's up? You look like you've found the holy grail."

He smiled at her. His blue eyes seemed even larger than usual, absolutely luminous. "I just . . . realized that I've been badly mistaken about something that was bothering me."

"What?"

"Sit down. I need to ask you a question." He would have rather done it on one knee, but that absolutely wasn't happening at the moment, and Rachel deserved to be right in the middle of this, too.

Cuddy sat next to him. "What is it, Greg?"

"Friday night a week ago, when I took the call from my Mom at your place, I asked her to send me a family heirloom. She said she'd get it in the mail by Monday at the latest."

Cuddy instantly grasped the significance of that. "You mean she was mailing something to you right before she got hit? Greg, that isn't your fault."

"I know." His eyes were like shining stars. "I know. And it really wasn't. The box is postmarked Saturday." She felt a surge of relief, glad that he wouldn't have to wrestle with that any longer, annoyed that he had been wrestling with it all week alone. Why couldn't he have told her? "I have no idea what she was doing at the post office Monday," House continued, "but I didn't send her there."

"Why didn't you tell me, Greg? I thought we were done with secrets."

"I didn't want that to be how you found out what I'd asked her to send." Cuddy raised an eyebrow, asking the silent question. "Mom always said she would send this to me when I found the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. All these years, I've never asked her to. Even five years with Stacy, I never asked her to. Friday night, I finally asked." He reached into his pocket and extracted the ring. "This isn't because of the baby, Lisa. I had already decided before I realized. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?"

She stared at the ring, which was stunningly beautiful, and then at his eyes, which were even more beautiful, rare jewels themselves. "Yes," she replied instantly. "Yes! Absolutely _yes_."

He slipped the ring onto her finger, and she leaned over to kiss him deeply. Caught between them, Rachel reached up to put a hand on each parent's cheek, and they both reached out to include her in the embrace as they welcomed the future.


End file.
